Tale of Two Cities
by Afalstein
Summary: Gotham City's Finest gain a new recruit in the shape of Jamie Reagan, son of the NYPD police commissioner. But this rookie may have chosen the worst of times for his transfer. As Bane rises to power, Jamie is forced to fight for his life in the streets of Gotham, while in New York his family will fight their own battles.
1. The Worst of Times

**The Worst of Times  
**

* * *

It was a beautiful day in the most wonderful city on earth, and Police Commissioner Frank Reagan was in his office, going through the latest figures from the police academy. The next crop of recruits looked highly promising: capable, honest men who would give their all to the job. It was just a pity that the budget wouldn't allow for him to hire more than a third of them. Still, most could go on to successful careers in other cities…

The door to his office swung open in a way it really wasn't supposed to, and Frank looked up to see a rather breathless Garret Moore.

"We need you in the situation room." He said.

* * *

It was a lazy day in the most comfortable armchair in the world, and Henry Reagan didn't plan to get out of it for anything. He'd spent all yesterday weeding out the front garden and mowing the lawn, so he felt justified in taking the day off. He'd lain in bed for nearly an hour after waking up, just reveling in the warmth of the sun. Then he'd come downstairs and fixed himself an exceedingly late breakfast, and now he was sitting in his favorite armchair in front of the television, laughing at soap operas.

Honestly, some people watched these things all the time? And took them SERIOUSLY?

John was just about to tell Mary that he was not only her husband, but also the 'other man' when the television flickered, and the intense domestic scene was replaced with a rather nervous-looking newsman. Henry sat up a little straighter.

"_We interrupt this broadcast to bring you some breaking news."_

* * *

It was the hottest day in the hottest month in the year, and Officer Renzulli was out in the middle of Times Square, under the full weight of the sun. His dark blue uniform wasn't exactly helping matters, and neither was the screaming lady he was trying to pacify.

"Miss, I don't make the parking laws, I just enforce them." He finished scribbling off the ticket and handed it to her. "You have a problem with it, take it to City Hall."

"But I was walking back to my car already!" She insisted. "A couple more minutes and you'd never have noticed!"

Renzulli briefly wondered how that was supposed to make it better. "Miss, if there were a fire in this building, I definitely would notice." He gestured at the lines on the ground. "This is a fire lane. You can't park here. Now you take this ticket to…"

He noticed the woman wasn't listening. She was staring past him, at the giant television screen that dominated the square. And now he saw that a man on the sidewalk was looking there too, and another man, and a mother and her child. They were all staring at the television screen.

Renzulli turned to see what all the fuss was about.

* * *

It was a busy day in the most overworked DA's office on the planet, and Assistant District Attorney Erin Reagan-Boyle was looking over a few case studies. She felt reasonably confident about winning the Micawber case, and the Kloosterman suit was developing nicely, but that Corleone bust worried her. Perhaps she should make the deal. Dad wouldn't like it, and neither did she, but in the end you did what you had to to put the crooks away.

She put the files away, turned, and sighed. The whole left side of her desk was piled high with cases, reviews, and warrants._ Looks like any kind of lunch is out of the question._

A sharp rapping at the door made her look up. The DA was standing in the door, an odd look on his face. "Erin, come to the break room."

She arched an eyebrow, gesturing at the pile. "Sir, I've got a lot to catch up on…"

"Just come to the break room, Erin." He said again. "There's something on the television you really have to see."

* * *

It was the slowest of slow days in the slowest class in the slowest SCHOOL on the face of the planet, and sophomore Nikki Reagan-Boyle felt like her brain was about ready to leak out of her eardrums. Math had never been her strong point, but today they were doing matrices. MATRICES. AUGMENTED matrices. Nikki couldn't quite remember how many circles of hell there were, but she felt reasonably sure that augmented matrices had a ring all to themselves.

Mr. Dripwilger wasn't helping matters in the slightest. "Now, the procedure to solve a FOUR by four matrix is very similar, with slight variations. The important aspect to remember, as we said before, is…" He squinted at the open Math book on his desk. "…that operations performed on any element of the matrix effect the whole. If you will turn to page 47…"

"_May I please have your attention_."

Nikki perked up at the squawk of the intercom. Sure, it was probably just a reminder that today was National Balloon Awareness Day, but at this point she'd take anything.

_ "I have… have just… received word that…"_

Frowning, Nikki exchanged glances with the rest of the class. Principal Schraeder sounded… strange.

"_I have just heard on the television_," said the intercom, apparently regaining control of itself, _"that one of America's greatest cities has come under terrorist attack."_

* * *

It was a ratherly blissfully stupid day in the precinct, and Detective Danny Reagan was poring through pages of financial reports in search of a discrepancy. There might be something there and there might not be, but the difference could change the whole shape of the case.

Lance Tyrion, age 48, had died in his home last night, of a rather standard gunshot wound. They were still waiting to hear back from ballistics, but Danny felt in his gut that the blood flow was all wrong and had a sneaking suspicion that autotopsy would reveal that the victim died of poisoning, with the gunshot coming after. Which placed suspicion on his wife, who'd fed the man his last meal.

But what motive could she have? It might be personal, it might be spiritual, it might be mental, what Danny was working on right now was the financial possibility, which might not turn out to be anything. Thirty pages down, about sixty more to go…

"What… WHAT!" A detective on the other side of the room stood up, cellphone clapped to his ear. "Your mother… it's on now?" He covered the phone's mouthpiece. "Get that television on!" He whispered urgently.

Frowning, Danny turned with the others as the precinct's television flickered into life. "_…those of you just joining us now, Gotham City has come under attack by an as-yet unnamed terrorist organization, we have here again the tape of the leader's speech…"_

* * *

_"…and the triggerman is one among you! An ordinary citizen, like you, who will at the first sign of interference or…"_

It was a terrible day in the most horrifying world of all possible worlds, and Linda Reagan was standing in the living room of her home, dishwater dripping from her hands as she watched the bridges explode and collapse for what seemed like the hundredth time.

Henry had called her. She'd barely been able to understand him at first, he was talking so fast. And he was swearing. She'd never heard Henry swear before.

All she had been able to decipher was: "Turn the damn TV on!" So she'd ducked into the living room, picked up the remote, and flicked it on.

It was all there. Plastered over all the networks. The football player running across the field, the strange rippling of the ground that you thought was a tv glitch until it ripped completely open. The 'Gotham skycam' feed that showed plumes of dust exploding into the sky, buildings crumbling, all before the feed itself cut out. Other skycam shots, showing the bridges collapsing. More of the football stadium, now with a masked man in the center, accompanied by armed guards. The bomb, the scientist, the sickening _crack_. The triggerman is one among you…

Linda nearly jumped at the ringing of the telephone. Quickly she backtracked into the kitchen, snatching up the cordless. "Hello?"

Nearly immediately, she relaxed. "Oh, Danny." She closed her eyes. "Are… are you seeing this? Is it…?" She listened for a few seconds. "No. Your grandfather is the only one who's called, do you think your dad…? Oh, he's alright. Oh, that's great." She walked back to the television as if drawn to the images. "No I understand, baby. Stay as long as they need you. No, we'll be fine."

She listened for a few moments more, than nodded. "Yes. Yes, I was planning to go by and pick the kids up anyway." Stealing another glance at the television, she added, "Perhaps we'll stop in at your Granddad's for supper, just to make sure he's doing okay."

_ "…return to your homes, and hold your loved ones close."_

"Love you too, babe." Linda whispered back into the phone.

* * *

The whole class sat in riveted silence, staring at the glowing screen in the corner of the class. Satellite images were coming up, showing the newly ripped cityscape of Gotham. The newsman appeared again in the corner. "Still no word from official channels, but we have here a bulletin saying that military forces have been put in motion and are already now on their way to secure the situation."

A jab to her side shook Nikki from her reverie. "Hey." Her friend whispered, looking at her with evident concern. "You okay?"

"I'm fine." Nikki managed.

"You sure? You're as pale as a ghost. And you're shaking."

Nikki looked down, stuck her hands in her pockets, and swallowed. "I'm fine." She repeated. "Really."

* * *

The living room was starting to look like some kind of nerve center. Henry'd grabbed Frank's old laptop and pulled up half-a-dozen searches on this "Bane" fellow, along with maps of the Gotham City area and some Google Earth images. He'd muted the TV—at some point they'd just started repeating their old segments, and that was no help to him.

He'd gone digging through some old newspapers and found a reference to the dead scientist. He'd printed out the man's dissertation on the fusion bomb, even though he couldn't begin to understand half the terms the man threw around in it. None of what he did actually made any difference to the mayhem onscreen, but Henry felt he had to do SOMETHING.

The phone wouldn't stop ringing. All his old friends, calling up: _Are you okay, Henry, you seeing this, did you ever hear the like, world's all gone to hell… _Family too, checking to see if he was all right.

Really, Henry felt like he should be the LAST person they should worry about.

* * *

The break room had passed the 'horrified silence' stage and was moving quickly into the 'horrified debate' stage.

"They can't possibly be serious…"

"…unprecedented situation…"

"…never get away with it, they can't guard all the exits…"

"…public opinion is going to go haywire…"

Erin wasn't joining in, she was just staring at the television, waiting, WAITING to hear one particular news item.

_What happened to the police officers?_

* * *

"Gordon was in the hospital, last I heard, has there been any word from Foley?" Frank Reagan glanced up the table of grim-faced men.

His chief of intelligence shook his head. "No sir. In fact we're having difficulty contacting anyone in the city, it seems most of the major lines of communication were cut in the initial explosion."

"So we have no idea what kind of shape their police force is in?"

"No sir. Given the sheer brazenness of the act, though…" The intel officer gestured at the mute screen. "…it's safe to say that they were somehow incapacitated before the event."

Frank Reagan drew in a deep breath and let it out. "Well, there's nothing we can do about that. Our first concern has to be our own city."

"You think they might attack here too, Frank?" Mayor Poole's face was tense and alert. "You think this isn't an isolated incident?"

"Mr. Mayor, I honestly don't know. Given the entrenched nature of what they've done, I'm inclined to think they're not going anywhere, but I'd rather not take the chance that I'm wrong about that." Flipping open the file before him, he continued, "Call in all the men we have. All leaves, vacations, sick days are as of this moment canceled. I want a strong police presence around all the major political and economic centers. Triple random searches on the subways, and get Harbor Patrol out in the bay." He hesitated for a moment, then added, "And I want riot police available at Zucotti Park. Three squads, at least."

Garret eyed him. "Commissioner, the Occupy movement has already gone on the air stating unequivocably that they in no way sponsor or approve of the actions of this 'Bane.' They're unaffiliated with him, and are as 'shocked and horrified' by the events as we are."

"Understood." Frank nodded. "And if I thought for a second they DID have anything to do with him, I'd have you charge in there and arrest them all. But make no mistake, this situation IS going to stir up trouble, if not from the Occupiers, than from people who blame them."

A few grey heads wagged around the table. "Be easy for some nutjob who lost family in the explosion to go running into that camp waving a knife around." One of them muttered.

"Mr. Mayor, I'm going to provide you with a police escort." Frank looked over at the man. "There is a network of safe locations we have reserved for these situations, I have to ask that you remain in hiding until the situation stabilizes."

The mayor shook his head. "I'll go with your men, Frank, but the people need to hear from their officials at a time like this. I need to get in front of a TV camera."

"Safe House 'E' has a fully equipped media room." Garret glanced from the mayor to his boss. "We'll put together an approved news team and have them meet you there for a conference."

Frank frowned but let it pass. "As you wish, Mr. Mayor." Glancing around the circle, he stood to his feet. "Very well then, gentlemen." He said, as the others rose. "You all know your jobs. Let's get out there and keep this city safe."

The officers filed out, pausing only to give the commissioner's hand a firm shake. Garret was the last to leave. As he went out the door, he paused and turned to look at his boss. "Frank, I…" He hesitated for a moment. "I mean, have you heard anything?"

Frank stared across the table at the empty wall. "No, Garret." He turned his head to look at him. "No word."

* * *

"Guess this killer's getting away." Danny muttered, dropping the homicide file into his desk drawer.

"Come off it, Reagan." Curatola was shrugging into her coat. "A city just got blown to hell and you're worried about a little two-bit homicide? Come on, we're due at City Hall to escort the Secretary of Cultural Affairs home."

"Yippee-ki-yay." Danny muttered, grabbing his own coat off the back of his chair. "Well, I can definitely see that if this city came under attack, cultural affairs would be the first thing on their mind."

"Hey, just cause they're terrorists don't mean they can't appreciate art."

"Yeah? Well if…"

_"My fellow Americans."_

For the second time, everyone froze and turned to the screen, fixed on the words of the elderly head that filled it.

_ "Our nation has been faced with an unprecedented crisis. Today, an unnamed terrorist organization has struck with inhuman brutality and unmatched ferocity at the heart of one our proudest urban centers. With the threat of a nuclear device, they have held 20 million lives hostage, promising to wipe out the whole city should a single soul escape." The president took a breath. "In this difficult time, we ask the people of Gotham to be strong, as they have been so often before…"_

Curatola leaned in as the president continued on about not negotiating but facing reality. "Danny." She whispered. "Isn't your brother Jamie in Gotham?"

Danny, eyes fixed on the screen, could barely nod. "Yeah." He managed. "Yeah he is."

* * *

It was the most horrifying day of his life, and the world was crashing down around Jamie Reagan's ears. The street was erupting against his feet, shards of glass and concrete was raining from the sky. There was a little girl, shrieking in the middle of the deadly downpour. He grabbed her and pulled her out of the way, shielding her with his body.

"Pull back!" He could hear Assistant Commissioner Foley's voice screaming over the radio. "Can you hear me? Get out of the tunnels, now!"

Jamie hadn't gone into the tunnels with the others. He, his partner, and maybe a handful of others had been out patrolling the city, keeping up a semblance of order while the 'real fight' went down underground.

He didn't know where they were. Heck, he didn't where HE was. He'd only been in Gotham for two months, and since that explosion flipped their car and smashed his partner under a load of concrete, he'd been more or less running blind. Hadn't exactly been paying attention to where he'd been running, either… it was kinda hard, what with the ground ripping up every five or ten feet.

The little girl was still shrieking. Jamie just held onto her. "You're all right!" He shouted to be heard over the roar of the explosions. "You're going to be fine!" One jagged bit of concrete thudded against his back and he staggered. "You're all right." He repeated, his voice a touch more ragged.

Things were growing quieter, he noticed distantly. The explosions had stopped, the rumble of collapsing buildings was slowly growing fainter. A few more notable rocks rebounded off him, then a shower of pebbles, and then it seemed to be over.

Slowly, he stood up. He let go of the little girl but she clung to him, still crying. All before and behind him, the street was rippled like a great blocky river of upended stones, great cracked flags of cement thrown up at odd angles. Bits of buildings littered the street, and in some sections utterly choked the road with the toppled remains of their once-proud structures. Sparking wires hung overhead beside the looming skeletons of skyscrapers just waiting to fall.

It looked like the end. It was only the beginning.

* * *

**A/N:**.So. _Rises_ was an incredibly satisfying tale that deserves fanfiction, and will doubtless get plenty. I was thinking of waiting until I had more of this written out before I submitted (because I have too many projects already to start another one) but then I realized that I'd better get into the Dark Knight fandom while it was hot.

_Blue Bloods_ is an underappreciated show about a New York Irish cop family, where all the members of the family are involved at some level with the police force. Now Will Estes, the actor for Jamie, has a cameo in Rises, and I decided to run with that. Batman, sadly, probably won't show up an awful lot in this fic, it's going to be mostly about the men and women of the GCPD and how they deal with the events of _Rises_. Obviously, there will be spoilers (kinda already were).


	2. Great Expectations

**Great Expectations**

* * *

They stayed up late into the night. Danny knew Linda would give him that look when he got back, but he also knew that would be all she'd give, because damn it, it wasn't every day your little brother transferred out to one of the most infamous cities in America, and Linda knew that as well as he did. So if he got a little drunk in sending off the kid, at least it was for a good reason.

"Okay. I got another one." Danny raised his bottle in salute. "To the Gotham City Police Department. For all the hell they're about to go through having to deal with this guy here."

Jamie grinned as he raised his own bottle to clink against Danny's. "They're probably just glad they don't have to deal with you."

"Aw, you're breaking my heart here. Where'd all that brotherly love go?"

"I don't know, you tell me."

"How about all the trouble Jamie's going to go through with the Gotham PD?" Henry raised his eyebrows at the brothers. "If I were you I'd watch your back there, son. Gotham's cops aren't exactly known for their lack of corruption."

From his side of the room, Frank Reagan shook his head. "Not in your day, Dad, but Gordon's really turned that police force around. A lot of their academy recruits are squeaky-clean, and with the hitting the cartels in the area took, there's not as many ways to corrupt them."

"I'm sorry?" Henry glanced over at his son. "Is my eyesight so bad that I missed the pigs flying overhead?"

Frank chuckled. "I'm sure there're a few bad apples in the mix, just as there are here." He admitted. "But I've been down there a few times, and the force strikes me as efficient and professional. James Gordon is a good man, I'm sure you'll be fine."

A snort broke loose from Danny. "This the same James Gordon who used to work with that psycho vigilante who killed the DA?"

"AND led the manhunt for him," pointed out the Commissioner, raising an eyebrow at Danny. "That was nearly eight years ago."

"C'mon, Danny." Jamie elbowed his older brother. "You can't expect all cops to be straight-laced, by-the-books sticklers like you."

"No, but I can expect them to keep from consorting with murderers." Danny gulped down part of his beer.

"He wasn't, while Gordon was 'consorting' with him." Frank pointed out.

Nodding, Henry added, "In my day, we took what help we could get when things were tough and didn't look too close on where it came from." With a shrug, he admitted, "Now, more often than not, that caused problems later, but sometimes you just need to get through the now."

"Mm." Frank drew a deep breath. "I can't agree with what Gordon did and it's no surprise it blew up in his face, but when it did he acted completely appropriately." After a moment, he nodded at Jamie. "No, Gordon is a good man, and his men are professional. I don't think you'll need to worry too much."

"Hey, I got one." Jamie raised his glass. "To the New York City Police Department. May they have a peaceful next few months."

"Now there's something to drink to." Frank raised his bottle.

Jamie smirked as the bottles clinked together. "Otherwise, they might not be able to do without me."

The circle of men roared with laughter. "Aw, come off it, rookie." Danny elbowed his brother back. "Nobody'll even notice you're gone. Me leaving, now that would be a disaster."

"I think New York will manage to run without you, Jamie," chuckled Frank. Slowly growing serious, he added, "But regardless of whether the city will miss you, this family will."

The others nodded soberly, and there was a moment of quiet.

"I'll miss you guys too." Jamie responded eventually. "And Dad, I know you're wondering if this is all just to get away from your name…"

"Never crossed my mind."

"…but I want you to know that that's not it." He looked his father in the eye. "I've always been proud to be a Reagan in the New York Police Department, and I can handle whatever expectations come with that. But I just…" He hesitated. "I feel like New York could learn a few tricks from Gotham, you know? The way that city's turned around… it's nothing short of inspiring."

The commissioner nodded. "I want you to know I completely understand, son. I've been down to Gotham a few times myself in recent years. Never be too proud to learn."

"It's getting late." Jamie observed, glancing at his watch. "Actually, forget that, it IS late. It's getting early."

"What time you leaving tomorrow?" asked Danny, as they rose.

"Plane leaves at 8. It's a short flight, but I can probably grab a little sleep on the way over." Jamie yawned. "Shoot, I'd BETTER. Not going to impress my new captain if I show up to work half-dead."

"Take care of yourself." Danny punched Jamie in the shoulder.

"Make us proud." Henry gave him a nod.

Frank shook his son's hand. "You need anything at all…"

"I'll call." Jamie promised. "I'll be sure to let you know if anything happens. But don't worry. Gotham hasn't had a surge of crime in three years. There's no reason for it to start now."


	3. Going into Society

**Going into Society**

* * *

Jamie settled into Gotham relatively quickly. It didn't take an awful lot of adjusting—the city was very like New York in a lot of ways. He hadn't brought his car, of course—it just seemed like too much trouble for a six-month tour—so he did have to learn to ride the subway. But apart from that, things were remarkably similar. He found a cheap apartment, discovered a reputable parish to attend, and was soon walking to the same beat as the other officers in his precint.

Officer Martin Rumsfeld was his partner, a twenty-year veteran of the force, an old bachelor who was looking more for retirement than for advancement. He was the perfect choice to show "the rookie" around town and explain to him how things worked. For if there was one thing Rumsfeld loved, it was explaining.

"This here section of town, what we're driving through right now, used to be called the Narrows." Rumsfeld informed Jamie. "Worst bit of scum-ridden trashhole you ever saw. Back in my day, you never, NEVER went down in the Narrows, not unless you had like 50 cops with you."

Jamie cast an appraising eye over buildings lining the street. "Doesn't look so bad."

"Now, sure." Rumsfeld snorted. "I mean, it still ain't no ritz—don't stop too long at the lights or you'll get the hubcaps stolen right out from under you—but it's a hell of a sight better than it used to be."

"What turned it around?"

"Batman."

"How?" But that was the end of the story. A lot of Rumsfeld's stories ended with Batman. As a matter of fact, nearly half the stories floating around the precinct involved Batman in some way, even the one about the giant rainbow monster. (though to be fair, that officer HAD been drunk). Honestly, Jamie hadn't given the vigilante much thought when he'd applied for the transfer. He hadn't been seen for years, after all. But once you were in the city, it was clear that though the Batman was gone, the image had stuck.

Mostly it was graffiti—great psychedelic variations on the infamous bat-signal that decorated the alleyways and highway underpasses. But you could see people walking around with Bat-buttons or t-shirts, and there were quite a few "Bat-cave" bars in the city.

The nearest competitor was Harvey Dent. Dent Day, Dent Park, Dent Community Outreach Program, Dent Act… there might not be as much graffiti of Dent, but his name still seemed to be plastered over everything. There were Harvey Dent shirts and buttons, his name was on the sign welcoming visitors to Gotham, there was a highly ornate plaque of him up in the police station. Nearly any kind of official building had some reference to Harvey Dent somewhere.

The odd dichotomy puzzled Jamie, and he brought it up one day when Rumsfeld pointed out some children, scrawling little chalk bats on the school walls. "I don't get it." He said. "I thought this Bats character was a murderer. Killed Dent, you know, the big hero."

Rumsfeld's face fell. "Yeah." He agreed.

"So… why all the symbols everywhere?" Jamie pressed. "I mean, I get that he's cool and probably better for street cred than Dent, it's just… even you, whenever you talk about him… you still sound like you admire the guy."

"Yeah." Rumsfeld nodded shamefacedly.

"Even though he's a murderer?"

"It's not that, it… ah. This is always hard to explain to the new ones." Rumsfeld sighed. "It's like a thing… Y'know that cool uncle you had growing up, who was lots of fun and gave you presents and joked around and everything, and then when you grew up you found out he was a con artist?"

There was a short silence. "Not really."

"But you get what I'm saying, right?"

Jamie gave a half-hearted shrug, Rumsfeld sighed, and that seemed to be the end of the matter. But a few days later, at the end of their shift, Rumsfeld caught Jamie's eye and gestured him over. There was another, much younger officer with him. "Blake." Rumsfeld introduced him. "John Blake. Blake, this is Reagan."

"Friends call me Jamie," said Jamie, shaking the other's hand. He glanced at Rumsfeld. "What's all this about?"

For answer, Rumsfeld looked at Blake. "He up there right now?"

Blake shook his head. "It's all clear."

Rumsfeld grinned and motioned to Jamie. "C'mon, rookie. There's something you need to see."

Blake led them back some hallways and up a series of old dilapidated stairs to a nondescript door that opened up onto the roof. Gotham's day was just ending, and the sun slowly starting to sink to red in the bay behind the tall silhouettes of its towers.

Jamie was about to ask what they were up here for when he saw the rusted, broken searchlight in the middle of the roof.

"Is that…?" He glanced at Rumsfeld.

Rumsfeld just grinned. "Check it out, kiddo."

Feeling a little self-conscious, Jamie approached the relic. It looked… fairly plain, actually. Just an old, dilapidated searchlight, stained with the weather of eight long years, its electronics and inner workings hopelessly beyond repair. The shattered lens gaped at him like an open mouth with jaws of broken glass, but in the belly of the light he could make out the twisted, mangled form of the bat-emblem.

"It's hard to explain to folks who weren't there," said Rumsfeld, approaching alongside Jamie. He ran his hand along the rim of the light with an almost reverential gesture. "Folks who never worked with him… saw him… even lived here while he was still… around. They just don't get it." He shook his head. "The Batman… he wasn't just some vigilante, some crazed nut-job in a mask. Heck, I'm not even sure he was a man. The Batman was a legend."

Rumsfeld fished a small flask from his coat pocket and took a sip. He offered it to Jamie, who obligingly swallowed a gulp and handed it back. Blake, still at the roof access door, simply shook his head in response to the offer.

"Back in the day… before that business with the Joker screwed everything up…" Rumsfeld shook his head. "The Batman was like… I dunno. The patron saint of policemen. Or something. You'd be working this unsolvable case that couldn't be cracked and BOOM! The culprits would show up on your doorstep, hand-wrapped and with a little file of evidence to stick them in the cooler. There'd be a bank robbery and you'd have this chase that looked like it was going to go on forever and all of a sudden, this huge car—like a tank—would come out of nowhere and just… plow them over. There was never anything like it."

"This…" again the reverential pat "…is maybe as close as you can get to understanding it. On rough nights, when something big was going down, the commissioner would come up here and flip this lightbulb on. And then just… wait. Sometimes he'd come and sometimes he wouldn't. But if you were a cop, out on the streets, just doing your job… you'd look up and see that the light was on. And you'd know…" A gentle smirk crossed the old man's face. "…you'd know that Gotham's guardian angel was out, ready to put the fear of God into those crooks."

Jamie, still studying the searchlight, nodded. "Why do they leave it here?" He asked.

"Technically, it was never here in the first place." Rumsfeld shrugged.

"Commissioner says it's to remind them of the mistakes they made." Blake spoke up from the doorway. "He comes up here sometimes at night just to look at it."

"Huh." Jamie turned from the shattered icon. "So… is this like some sort of… Gotham initiation rite? I mean, going up here to look at this."

Rumsfeld hummed a minute, a thoughtful expression on his face. "I guess so." He said at length. "I hadn't thought about it, but I suppose I do bring all the rookies up here." With a sudden cackle of laughter he handed the flask over to Jamie. "Welcome to the force, rookie."

* * *

Work in 'the force' was surprisingly easy. Day after day he and Rumsfeld would patrol the streets, and often the most exciting thing about the day was Rumsfeld's stories. Jamie asked him once or twice, but Rumsfeld waved him off with: "Just the way Gotham is these days, kiddo. We got crime all locked up."

Jamie knew Gotham's numbers were low, but he couldn't quite believe them to be THAT low. Even his father hadn't managed to reform New York to that extent, and New York hadn't started with the worst crime rate in the nation.

Talking to Blake cleared up matters somewhat. "A lot of what you call 'career criminals' are locked up in Blackgate, courtesy of the Dent Act." He explained. "That helps us take care of repeat customers."

"I see," said Jamie, thinking on what Erin had said about the Dent Act. "Still, that leaves plenty of petty criminals, right?"

Blake sighed and glanced around before motioning to Jamie. "It's not anything official." He muttered. "But lately, crooks have been vanishing off the streets. Thieves, rapists, murderers, jaywalkers… We go to arrest them and they're not there. Heck, sometime we just go to check up on them or ask them questions, and they're gone. Not a sign of 'em."

"How?"

"Search me." Blake shrugged. "Some think they just up and leave Gotham. Some think there's a new vigilante, picking up where the Batman left off. Some think it IS the Batman, just being a lot quieter and deadlier."

"But you don't think so." It was evident from Blake's face.

Blake shook his head. "If it were a vigilante, Batman or otherwise, there'd be talk about it on the streets. Crooks would be running scared. But it's just the opposite. There's this strange sort of… smugness running around. Like they know something and we don't. The snitches won't talk, but I think they're all going underground."

"Underground?"

"Gotham's practically built on top of itself." Blake explained. "There's a whole network of tunnels beneath Gotham, not to mention the big-ass sewers they built way back in the day. It's a maze down there."

Jamie frowned. "So you think that someone's created a haven for criminals directly underneath Gotham?"

Shrugging, Blake responded, "It's just a theory."

Disturbing as it was, the theory did help to explain how oddly quiet patrols seemed to be, or at least it did until Jamie heard several other officers complaining about all the action downtown. Apparently, the city did still have a crime problem, Jamie just wasn't seeing it.

Rumsfeld grumbled a bit when Jamie confronted him about it, but after a few moment's persistence confirmed his suspicions. "It's all the Deputy Commissioner's idea." He sighed. "Foley figured—heck, we've got a Reagan in town, let's roll out the red carpet for him. Give him a quiet time, show him what a bang-up job we've done of taking out criminals. Give the New York commish something good to hear about."

"So what, I'm getting a whitewash tour?" Jamie cried.

Rumsfeld shrugged. "Kid, I'm about ready for retirement. I lived through that mess in the Narrows and that other mess with the Joker. I'm not looking for more excitement at my age." A shrewd tone entered his voice. "Besides, are you saying you DON'T tell your daddy about how great Gotham is now? And that he ISN'T impressed?"

"He's not going to be impressed by this, I can tell you that much." Jamie responded, turning to look out the window.

* * *

Deputy Commissioner Foley was very apologetic. "I'm terribly sorry for deceiving you like that, Jamie. Gotham's come a long way, but a lot of people still think of us as the crime bed of the nation. I figured a little more good press couldn't hurt. Besides…" he shrugged. "I'd never forgive myself if you died under my command."

"Really?" Jamie raised his eyebrows. "What about any other cop on the street?

"I have a hard time forgiving myself for their deaths too." Foley replied earnestly. "But like it or not, Reagan, you're NOT just any other cop on the street, and everyone who meets you knows it. Might make it harder or easier on you, but that's the way it is."

Jamie looked away. "I don't want people saying I got an easy ride in Gotham because of my dad." He muttered.

"Done." Foley nodded. "I'll put you on the downtown circuit and you'll be up against murderers again before you know it." As Jamie turned to leave, he added: "But can you put up with one more thing for me, Reagan? The mayor's holding a party at Wayne mansion on Dent Day next week and I want you to be part of the security detail."

"What, so I'm a trophy now?" Jamie spread his arms wide.

"The mayor wants to meet you." Foley insisted. "Dent Day is typically pretty quiet anyway, I can practically guarantee nothing else will be happening in the city."

* * *

"There _better_ not be anything else going on." Jamie yawned. "If I have to listen to one more speech…"

"Aw, relax." Rumsfeld elbowed him. "You rookies. Always eager to rush off to the next gunfight. Just enjoy the gig. Shoot, after they're all done, we get to help with the leftovers."

Jamie sighed and stared out over the crowd. "Wayne Manor." He mused. "Place looks old."

"Heh. Not really. It burned down years ago, one of Wayne's drunken binges. What you're looking at was done maybe six years ago."

Jamie frowned at the roof. "It secure?"

"Jameson's boys checked through it just before the event. Got shown around by the butler himself. No sign of Wayne, of course, he's probably in some dark closet wasting away from liver failure or something." Rumsfeld glanced over. "Why?"

Jamie pointed. "That chimney looks a little weird."

Rumsfeld snapped to attention, gazing intently at the roof. For a moment his hand strayed to his sidearm, but then he shook his head. "That's no sniper. He's just sitting there."

"Maybe he's waiting for something. Isn't Commissioner Gordon up next?"

"Terrible amateur if he is. Everyone knows you shoot from a window, this guy's right up against the skyline." Rumsfeld touched his radio. "This is Rumsfeld, we have a possible sighting on the roof, west gable. We got anyone up there?"

A slight pause. "Affirmative. That's me."

"Much obliged, Trotwood, Rumsfeld out." The veteran clicked his mike off. "Good eye, kid." He nodded approvingly. "Ah! And just in time, here comes the Commissioner."

Jamie craned his neck to see a scrawny, bent figure approach the podium. Horn-rimmed glasses glinted in the glare from the stage lights as the man gave a small wave of thanks for the applause. From a coat pocket, he pulled a sheaf of paper. "I have… prepared a speech…" He began.

Rumsfeld looked over at him and Jamie shrugged. "I'm a little… surprised, I guess."

"Most people say 'disappointed,'" responded Rumsfeld, looking somewhat resigned.

"It's not that!" Jamie protested. "He's… not what I was expecting, sure, but… I dunno." He watched as the bespectacled man nervously stuffed the speech back into his coat. "He kinda reminds me of my old man."

"Really? How so?"

"Dad hates these sort of things."

A short bark of laughter escaped Rumsfeld. "That's Gordon all right. Foley keeps the politicians off his back, but he's always itching under the collar at these things."

Jamie grinned. "Definitely like Dad. Even has a Garret Moore."

"Who now?"

"Forget it." Jamie waved the question off, watching the crowd clap as the Commissioner walked offstage.

* * *

"Wonderful to meet you, Jamie. I'm a big fan of your father's."

"Thank you sir." Jamie shook Mayor Garcia's hand.

"Hey, tell you what, you have a night, you feel like celebrating or if you have a special lady you feel like treating…" The Mayor winked as he produced a card. "Drop by this place. Best steak in town."

Glancing up from the card, Jamie smiled and tried to hand it back. "Mr. Mayor, I appreciate the offer, but I'm not exactly allowed to accept favors or…"

"Easy there, Matlock," laughed the Mayor. "It's a membership card, not a gift certificate. It just lets you in the door. Once you're in, you're on your own meal ticket."

Jamie smiled. "In that case, thank you."

"You're welcome." The Mayor shook his hand again and smiled. "Be sure to tell your father I said hi." Catching sight of another face, Mayor Garcia moved on.

Glancing down at the card, Jamie frowned. "Harvey Dent Diner?"

"Hi-rise place. Big bucks go there. VERY exclusive." Rumsfeld peered with interest over his shoulder. "Y'know kid, if you by any chance wanted to celebrate your induction into Gotham PD with your partner…"

"Sorry, no can do," said Jamie, slipping the card into his pocket. "Don't think your mayor realizes what a patrolman's salary is like."

"Don't try to tell me you don't have a little stash hidden away somewhere."

"Hundred dollar bill sewn into my coat lining." Jamie grinned at the expression on Rumsfeld's face. "That's just for emergencies, though, like if someone steals my wallet or I get a car repairman who only takes cash." He glanced about the lawn. "How much longer do we need to stick around here?"

"Wrap up doesn't start till around 1." At Jamie's groan, Rumsfeld turned and grinned. "Relax, kiddo. Most of the dignitaries should be leaving around 11. Anyway, there's not likely to be anyone else here who cares about you or your daddy."

"That's a relief."

"Hey." A lean officer with a dour expression walked up to them. "What's up?"

"Dunno." Rumsfeld shrugged. "Haven't gotten around to leftovers yet. Hey, Trotwood, you met Reagan? Reagan, this is Trotwood."

Jamie extended a hand. "Charmed."

"Same." Trotwood didn't look particularly charmed and his hand felt almost painfully bony in Jamie's palm. He gave Jamie's hand a firm, curt shake, then turned to Rumsfeld. "You ask about roof?"

"Hm? Oh, yeah. Rookie here saw you and thought you might be a sniper."

Nodding, Trotwood cocked his head. "Where?"

"Over by the West Gable." Jamie pointed. "You were leaning against the parapet, like you were looking down."

Trotwood frowned. "Not me."

"What?" Rumsfeld blinked. "But you said you were on the roof."

"Not by edge. Middle of West side. Better view. And _standing_, not leaning."

"You sure?"

Trotwood's answer was a glare. "I don't lean."

"Huh." Rumsfeld arched an eyebrow at Jamie. "Wonder who that was we saw, then."

Shrugging, Jamie glanced up at the roof. "Apparently not a sniper, fortunately."

"Probably just the butler, getting some air." Chuckling suddenly, Rumsfeld threw an arm over Jamie's shoulders. "Hey, who knows, kid? You might've been the first person in years to lay eyes on Bruce Wayne."

* * *

**A/N: **I considered filling the story with Dick Graysons and Harvey Bullocks and other hidden references, but decided against it. Nolan has gone to great lengths to avoid that kind of name-dropping, and bringing in comic book characters would just distract from the cop story this is supposed to be. Sorry if anyone was hoping to see Renee Montoya. Blake will be showing up a good deal, at least once the seige of Gotham gets fully underway.


	4. Knowledge of Nothing

**Knowledge of Nothing**

* * *

_"So Jamie, tell us what it was like."_

_ "What was what like?"_

_ "C'mon, don't play dumb with us, Jamie, you were never any good at lying."_

_ "We're not blind you know, Jamie, we watch the news. The recent fracas in Gotham is all over the networks. So tell us. What was it like yesterday?"_

_ "Well… pretty dull, really."_

* * *

"…so this crazy guy, he hops right out of the cab, with the Joker right there. And I follow him out because, heck, you don't leave men behind and the truck clearly isn't going anywhere. And IsweartaGawd, this guy, he runs right over to the Joker and clocks him. First just clicks his gun at the guy's head to let him know he's got the drop on him, then flat out smacks him down to the ground with it." Rumsfeld shook his head admiringly. "Then he takes off his mask, and holy hardballs, it's the commissioner!"

"What?" Jamie glanced at his partner incredulously. "The commissioner was in the prisoner convoy the whole time?"

"Well, he wasn't commissioner back then, ya know," responded Rumsfeld, waving off the concern. "Though the mayor handed him the job the second he got back to the precinct, because seriously, what else do ya do to the man who punched the Joker?"

"And saved the mayor's life. And singlehandedly reformed the department. And somehow managed to survive the '96 Riot in the Narrows."

Rumsfeld's laugh was a trifle uncertain. "Told you about that one too, huh?"

"Actually, no, Blake told me about that, but his was just hearsay," answered Jamie. He raised an eyebrow. "I think that's probably the one story you HAVEN'T told me. You were around then, right?"

With another uneasy laugh, Rumsfeld hunched over the steering wheel and focused on the road. "Maybe some other time, kid. I get sentimental talking about the 'good old days.'"

"Can't see what was so good about them." Jamie pointed out. "Judging from your stories, there must have been a drug shop on every corner and a murder in every building."

"More, dependin' on the district." Rumsfeld's grin was back.

Laughing, Jamie shook his head. "Well, I suppose those days must have been exciting, at least." He glanced out the window at the houses lining the streets. "Not like today."

"You're not still suspicious of Foley, are ya? 'Cause I can tell you, this…"

"Is normal. Yeah, I get it." Jamie waved the older cop to silence. "No, after that little skirmish last week I'm ready to believe this is a normal beat we've got again. But even so… things have been really quiet the last couple days."

"Don't say that. You'll jinx it," grumbled Rumsfeld, reaching for his cup of coffee. "All you rookies, wanting to see more 'action' and what not. If you ask me, boredom is an underrated emotion."

"I'm not complaining, I'm just saying it's weird." Jamie protested.

"Don't worry about it." Rumsfeld assured him. "If you're thinking this is one of those 'calm before the storm' things, that whole idea's a load of crap. Sayin' it's quiet before it gets noisy is like saying things are dry before they're wet or vicey-versy. There's good days and there's bad days. Today—" he leaned back in his seat and took a sip of his coffee. "—today is a good day, alright? So let's just enjoy it."

Jamie shrugged. "I know. There's probably nothing going to happen today, it's just that…"

_"All available officers, report to the financial district! We have a hostage situation in process at the Exchange!"_

As he gunned the engine, Rumsfeld glared at Jamie. "You just HAD to say it, didn't you."

* * *

_ "Nuh-uh. You ain't boring us out of this story."_

_ "C'mon, Jamie, get to the point!"_

_ "What? You asked me what yesterday was like. I'm telling you. Or did you want me to start earlier than that? Let me see, I woke up at nine, turned off the alarm, brushed my teeth…"_

_ "Jamie! Come ON! Tell us what happened at the Exchange!"_

_ *chuckle* "Well, actually we never got there."_

* * *

"We'll cut across Pickwick Ave, it runs straight into the Barkis Fairway!" Rumsfeld shouted over the siren's wail. "From there it's a straight shot to the Exchange."

"Got it." Jamie nodded, checking his pistol. "What's this Exchange place?"

"Localized stock market of sorts. Dunno the specifics myself, never been into speculating." Rumsfeld shrugged.

"Doesn't sound like the best spot for a hostage situation."

"It doesn't," frowned Rumsfeld. "Sure, lots of people, but they're brokers, it's not like they're the real big wigs. Robbery gone bad, maybe?"

"What, like they tried to rob the…"

"_Attention all units! Suspects fleeing south down Barkis Fairway!"_

Rumsfeld's eyes widened and his hands spun over the wheel. From the far left lane, the patrol car screamed into a right turn and banked into Barkis fairway.

"_Suspects are on motorcycles. Be advised that one of them is carrying a hostage."_

"There!" Jamie pointed, reaching for the radio. "This is Officer Reagan, we have a visual on three suspects, are pursuing south down Barkis Freeway. Suspects have just entered Kane Tunnel."

"Copy that, Reagan," crackled the radio.

Kane Tunnel was long and brightly lit. Up ahead, Jamie could see the motorcyclists, their broad backs to the car as they expertly weaved in and out of traffic. Rumsfeld wove after them with no less skill but considerably less grace. Jamie kept his hand on the radio, there honestly wasn't much more for him to do.

Something funny was happening to the lights in the tunnel. It was darker than it should be. Jamie chanced a look back, and for a moment thought he saw something…

The car was plunged into darkness. The lights overhead, the car's headlights, the headlights of the car next to them, even the siren and the dashboard display, all went out at once.

"What the hell?" Jamie stared at the car in shock, but the lights were already coming back on. Glancing ahead, Jamie saw a strange pool of darkness speed away from them. The tunnel lights were flickering off and on in perfect time to its motion, keeping it hidden in perpetual blackness, but Jamie felt he could just make out something in its depths.

Rumsfeld's hands tightened on the wheel. "Oh, you are in for a show tonight!"

* * *

_"He actually said that?"_

_ "Something like that. I was too busy staring after the bike, wasn't paying a whole lot of attention to my fanboy partner."_

_ "Your partner's a fanboy?"_

_ "C'mon, sis, Jamie's right, a guy who says stuff like that's definitely a fanboy."_

_ "Well to be fair, he was right. It WAS quite a show."_

* * *

"Holy cow… did he just… how… I didn't… how fast is that bike of his going?"

Rumsfeld let out a delighted laugh. "Don't ask me, kid."

"What kind of bike even_ is_ that?"

"Batman's." Rumsfeld laughed again at Jamie's expression. "Seriously, that's the only answer I can give you. Eight years the force's been hunting that bike, and we STILL don't know how it does the things it does. It's like a…"

"Hang on, he's stopping, he's stopping. He's got a… what is that?"

Rumsfeld slammed on the brakes. Jamie, without even thinking, leapt out of the car and whipped out his pistol, aiming at the dark-clad vigilante. Apparently the Batman hadn't even noticed him yet, he was pointing something down the tunnel at the fleeing criminals… something long and silver…

_It's a gun!_ Jamie's hand tightened nervously on the trigger.

BANG!

* * *

_"Hang on a sec, little brother. You did what?"_

_ "You discharged your weapon at a civilian? Without even identifying yourself or providing due warning?"_

_ "I know, dad, I know. It… just sort of went off in my hand. Heat of the moment, I guess."_

_ "That's no excuse and you know it, son."_

_ "Heck, Jamie, if I fed people that kind of story, IA would be over my case like ants on a picnic. Well, more than they are already."_

_ "Well… that's kinda the funny thing. When I reported the discharge later, and said it'd been Batman, the examining officer just sorta laughed and said, 'yeah, we've all been there.' Like it didn't even matter. And then he asked me what happened next…"_

* * *

The bullet glanced harmlessly off the weapon. Far down the tunnel, one of the motorcycles toppled over, sending the rider flying.

The dark figure turned to look at him, eyes bright in the blackness of his cowl.

Jamie lowered his weapon. "Sorry." He managed.

* * *

_"Sorry? You said sorry? You're faced with the most notorious vigilante in the world, guy who killed Harvey Dent, and you say 'Sorry?'"_

_ "It… I… well you see, he… It's… hard to explain."_

_ "What, this guy levels one glare at you and you lose your balls, just like that?"_

_ "No, no, he didn't look like he was mad, just… puzzled. Faintly perplexed, like he couldn't figure out why I was shooting at him. And… well, like you said, I hadn't identified myself. Or given due warning."_

_ "And suddenly that's a big deal to you."_

_ "It's… hard to explain. I just felt really stupid all of a sudden."_

_ "Yeah, well that's a coincidence, because you were really stupid."_

_ "Oh, lay off him, Danny. C'mon, Jamie, continue with the story. Then what happened?"_

* * *

"Put your weapon away, Reagan!" cried Rumsfeld in exasperation, coming out from around his side of the car. "That perp's getting away!"

Jamie nearly asked if Rumsfeld meant the Batman (who had revved up his cycle again and was already shooting out of sight) before he caught sight of the cyclist, scrambling to his feet. As he bolted after his partner, another cop car screeched ahead of them and swerved in front of the crook. Two cops jumped out and tackled him.

Jamie and Rumsfeld ran up as they were cuffing the prisoner. "…say can and will be used against you in a court of law." One of them reminded the man, pulling him to his feet. "You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand these rights as they have been read to you?"

Silence. The man just stared back at them, face wooden. His dark-haired face had just a hint of the middle-eastern about it, but not enough to indicate foreign birth. He was curiously well-built, and the automatic he'd been using was a few feet away on the ground.

"Well, at least he seems to understand his right to remain silent." Rumsfeld observed. "Load him in the car, Jerry, and run him back to the station. C'mon Reagan, let's get back to the car. Still got two more of those bastards."

"Not anymore." Jerry shook his head as he pulled the crook to the patrol car. "Foley just came on the horn. Says forget the wannabe robbers, stay on Batman."

Rumsfeld winced. "Damnit. This would never happen with Gordon." He waved to Jamie. "Let's get moving anyway. Maybe we can catch some of the excitement."

* * *

_ "Again, he actually said that?"_

_ "Hey, you say you saw the news feeds of the chase. Are you saying he was wrong?"_

_ Silence._

_ "Hey Uncle Jamie, were you there for part where he ramped off the truck?"_

_ "No Nikki. But I was there for his getaway."_

* * *

"We've got him! Like a rat in the trap!" Deputy Commissioner Foley's voice was exultant over the radio. "Keep on his tail, we'll cut him off."

"Holy crap." Jamie muttered, glancing out the window. The cop cars stretched from one side of the highway to the other. In the rearview mirror he could see more, approximately four cars deep, trailing the others as they trailed Batman.

Rumsfeld had gotten an early lead on the others and was fighting to keep it. "Gotta have front row seats for something like this," he'd muttered. A part of Jamie was wondering if Rumsfeld was in front of the others in order to slow them down, to keep them from catching Batman. But he found that hard to believe, because Rumsfeld was driving like a maniac. Or at least, as much of a maniac as one could be, driving alongside six or seven other maniacs.

And it wasn't making the slightest difference. The black bike ahead of them remained as elusive as ever, zipping along at an even distance from them. Little could be seen of the Batman himself but his flapping black cape.

"Ah, this reminds me of the old days." Rumsfeld sighed, hands clenched on the steering wheel. "All we'd need is a few road mines and it'd be just perfect."

Jamie turned to his partner. "Road mines?"

"Oh, don't worry, he hasn't used them in years." Rumsfeld assured him. "At least, not on cops."

For some reason Jamie did not feel encouraged. He opened his mouth to ask more, when suddenly flashing lights at the end of the street caught his attention. "There!" He pointed. "They've got his route cut off!"

"They sure do." Rumsfeld agreed gleefully. "Oh, I can't wait to see how he gets out of this one."

Jamie glanced at him again. "You actually sound… HOLYCRAP!"

The bike swerved at an unbelievable angle (for a second it almost looked like the tires were spinning sideways) and shot into a darkened alley. His mouth spewing colorful language, Rumsfeld wrenched the steering wheel around, slamming on the brakes to send them skidding to a stop.

They weren't the closest to the alley. In fact, they had stopped just shy of crashing into third-closest car. But it was a lot closer than half of the cars screeching to a stop behind them.

Jamie was already out of the car, weapon drawn, kneeling behind the car for cover, his pistol pointed at the dark mouth of the alleyway. Rumsfeld followed, drawing his weapon almost reluctantly. "Here we go." He muttered. "Damn, I really _do _wonder how he's going to get out this one."

"You and me both," said another cop, coming alongside them. He leveled a shotgun along the car top. Further back, Jamie heard the slam of the SWAT van doors as a team of black-clad officers jogged past. Deputy Commissioner Foley, with Blake alongside, strode up toward the front lines, bullhorn in hand.

Foley said something into the horn but Jamie lost it in the speaker's whine. For a moment, there was silence, with nothing but the clicks of a hundred weapons being readied.

Then the alleyway and the street lit up with blinding light, and Jamie stared along with two hundred other officers as a black behemoth roared up into the air and away from the enormous barricade.

Still staring, Jamie reached up for his hat and lifted it, scratching his head. "That… that…"

"Oh yeah." Rumsfeld chuckled. "He's BACK."

* * *

**A/N:** Sorry this took so long. I experienced some pretty major writer's block, because I couldn't remember what exactly happened in the chase scene. I ended up sticking with what I knew and sort of writing around what I didn't. If anyone can point out the parts I got wrong, I'd greatly appreciate it.


	5. Keeping Up Appearances

**Keeping up Appearances**

* * *

It was a beautiful night in Gotham City, and several of Gotham's finest were taking full advantage of it in one of the city's reputable houses of liquor.

"To Detective Blake." Rumsfeld raised his bottle. "May his career be long and interesting, and may he send the scum of Gotham scurrying back into their holes."

Blake grinned as he tapped his bottle against the others. "How about into the mouse trap? If Gordon's right, we got too many rats in the holes already."

"You mean if you're right." Jamie tipped back his bottle and sipped the burning liquid. "You told me that theory of yours days before the commish got washed down the drain and woke up talking about underground cities and what-not."

Blake shrugged. "Lucky guess." A shadow passed over his face. "I just wish I could get Foley to believe it too. Having the commissioner back me up is good and all, but let's face it… Gordon isn't exactly in charge right now. Unless Foley's convinced, he's not doing anything."

"He's got no reason to." Rumsfeld pointed out. "Streets are clean, crime is low, stats are down. As long as everything's happy, why stir up the pot?

"Cause eventually the soup's going to burn." Jamie sipped from his bottle.

Nodding ruefully, Blake stared at his bottle. "I get that we stick on the most evident threats, I do, but it still seems like so much… whitewashing. Ignoring the criminals just because we can't see them."

"Best way to ignore things," interjected Rumsfeld. "I have known people who ignored things they saw, but if things are out of sight, folks tend to forget them. It's why the rich live as far away from the poor as possible."

"I guess." Blake sighed. "Still." He said, drawing himself up with a grunt. "This is one skeleton I'm going to drag out of the closet if it kills me. I'm going to make it my top priority."

"Guess they're gonna have to dress you up now, huh detective?" Rumsfeld elbowed him. "Make you wear a suit and tie, that sort of thing? Can't have you giving the New York City police a bad name."

"Naw, Rumsfeld, I figure you do that just fine on your own."

"Oh snap." Jamie grinned.

Grunting, Rumsfeld nudged the other cop at the table. "C'mon, Trotwood, help me out here."

Trotwood raised an eyebrow. "They're right."

"Oh, as if." The veteran snorted. "I was out on the street protecting what was left of Gotham's good name while you were all still pooping diapers."

Blake shrugged. "I bow to your superior experience with diapers."

"How about you tell us some more of those old stories with Gotham's good name." Jamie's eyes twinkled. "Tell us one about the Narrows, those are always fun."

Rumsfeld toyed around with his lip a bit. "Okay, here's a good one. We'd gotten called out to Arkham Asylum on an anonymous tip, they said the Batman was in the house…"

"Oh, not that one again." Jamie shook his head. "I meant a new one."

"Heard that one a million times." Trotwood agreed.

"Batman was in the house, thousand bats smashed through the windows and flooded the hospital, and the next thing you knew, there was a black tank smashing through your barricade." Blake nodded. "It's a good story, pops, but it's gotten a little old."

"How about the Narrows riot?" Jamie asked. "I don't think you've told me that story before."

"Come to think of it, I don't think I've heard it either." Blake glanced at the older policeman with interest.

"Not me." Trotwood shook his head. They were all looking at Rumsfeld expectantly.

But he just looked away. "Eh, some other time, maybe. You young farts don't want to hear a fogie like me go rambling on all night."

"Oh, c'mon." Jamie smiled. "We love your stories."

"At least half as much as you do. What's this, Thomas Rumsfeld not jumping at the chance to tell us another tale of the good old days?" Blake slapped the man on the shoulder. "C'mon, what's up?"

"Eh… that's not much of a story anyway. I was asleep for most of it, and the rest I don't remember." Rumsfeld gave a little smile. "Try talking to Heep, he'd probably know more about it. He wasn't on the island."

"Yeah, but he'd just have the boring version we all saw from the history channel." Jamie scoffed. "Fog over the buildings and lots of shouting. Not much to go on."

"Yours has to be better." Trotwood pointed out.

"Ah, let it go." Blake waved them off. "If he doesn't want to tell us, he doesn't have to."

"Hey, we ain't here to talk about my sorry stories anyway, are we?" said Rumsfeld, picking his bottle up abruptly. "How about another toast? Reagan, I don't think you've given yours yet."

Jamie smiled, thought for a moment, and raised his bottle. "To Detective Blake." He said. "May he go on to have many fascinating stories to bore rookies with."

"Ha!" barked Rumsfeld as the bottles clinked together. "Be careful, kid. You know what they say about stuff you wish for."

* * *

"Christmas is like months away, you guys." Jamie shook his head at the computer. "Why are you asking me for a list now?"

"_We were thinking if there's anything you need in Gotham now, we could give it to you early."_ Linda smiled out from the screen. _"You know, like something for your car or apartment."_

_ "Or if there's some fancy gold pin that all the cool cops down there wear." _Danny's voice cut in from offscreen.

Jamie laughed. "Cops here get paid less than you do, Danny. Any kind of gold pin is a bit beyond their means." For a moment he thought. "My partner's been telling me I should get a shotgun for home defense."

_"That's legal down there?"_

"No idea." Jamie shrugged. "Rumsfeld's not exactly a stickler. Anyway I don't want a shotgun. I get the feeling that's a sort of holdover from the old days when the Mafioso might break down your door any second."

_"Right then. No gold pin, no shotgun…"_

"_How's your car, son?"_ His dad leaned down to address the camera.

"Oh, it's fine. Gets me from point A to point B. Nothing like a Ford."

_"What, you're still driving that old clunker?"_ Danny's voice sounded in disbelief. _"That's it. No way are you going to keep driving that sorry excuse for a motor vehicle around Gotham."_

"The car is FINE." Jamie protested. "And honestly I take the subway most days anyways. Traffic here is terrible."

_"How about a new raincoat, then? I hear it rains a lot in Gotham."_

"I have a raincoat too." Jamie pointed out, tilting the camera so his family could see the item in question, thrown over the back of a chair.

_"Not for long you won't, with it in that condition."_ Granddad's voice indicated his scorn. _"How long have you been wearing that thing, Jamie? Since college?"_

"I got it junior year, it's not that old." Jamie protested.

_"It's old enough to give us an excuse ," _answered Linda, a smirk of triumph on her lips. _"Can't let you be seen wearing that raggedy thing."_

_"How about a trenchcoat? You like trenchcoats, kiddo?"_

Jamie shook his head fondly. "Danny, trenchcoats went out with Dick Tracy and Humphrey Bogart."

_"Hey now, don't go knocking that guy. Those radio wristbands he had were awesome."_

_ "We'll pick you up something, Jamie."_ His father assured him_. "In the meantime, keep on and do your job. I hear nothing but good things from Foley about you."_

Jamie snorted. "I'm sure you do."

_"Well."_ A smile tinged the edge of his father's lips. _"I wouldn't be telling you if I didn't think his praise had some basis in fact. I'm proud of you, son. We all are."_

There was a garbled chorus of agreement from the other members.

"Thanks, dad." Though Jamie couldn't help feeling inwardly that between busting the Blue Templars and going deep undercover within the mafia (not to mention rescuing a baby from a burning house), his good behavior on the Gotham Police Force wasn't actually all that impressive.

_"Keep it together out there, son."_ Frank nodded at the screen. "_And until you get it, don't worry about the raincoat._ _It's not the uniform that makes the officer, it's the man inside."_

* * *

"Kid sure gets busy quick enough." Rumsfeld grumbled as the car doors slammed shut. "Already found someone in that senator's kidnapping case?"

"So what's the drill here?" Jamie asked, coming around his side of the car.

Rumsfeld shrugged. "Split up, cover the airport. Look for a tall, slim lady with long brown hair, wearing a black dress and hat. Name Selina Kyle. Apparently she was a witness they lost track of during the senator case and Blake thinks she may be on the run."

"Got it." Jamie nodded, eyes already scanning the crowd. "Where's Blake, anyway?"

"Trying to get info on where she's running to so we can watch the gate," said Rumsfeld. "This is a big airport, y'know. We've got guys swarming the place but it's still going to be tricky. We're on Terminal C." Rumsfeld pointed. "I'll take the higher half of gates, you take the lower half."

"Got it," nodded Jamie, and pushed his way through the crowd.

* * *

It wasn't the description so much as the air that tipped him off. After all, there were a LOT of brown-haired women in the airport, and he couldn't watch them all. But when she came through the doors, something about her focused his attention. Her walk, maybe… it was brisk, a touch too hurried for a casual gait. Or her eyes, the way they flitted back and forth under deceptively nonchalant lids.

She reminded him of Bianca, when it came down to it. There was that same aura of danger around her, that slightly dark edge to her beauty, and it fascinated him as much as ever.

But of course, that didn't change that she was a person of interest, and one trying to avoid attention, if the way she'd just ducked through that door was any indication. Jamie was fine with that… arresting pretty girls in public never went over well with the bystanders. Pushing through the doors after her, he stopped her with a call. "Ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you for your papers."

"Oh." There was boredom, resignation, calculation in her expression. "Of course." She started to fumble in her purse, but her hat got in the way. "Could you hold this, please?" She asked, handing it to him.

Jamie shrugged and took the hat. She seemed normal enough. Perhaps this was all just a big misunder…

POW!

* * *

"Quite the shiner you got there, kid." Rumsfeld's face was full of glee at the bar that evening. "Tell me again, who was it that knocked you out? Football player? Escaped con? Terrorist?"

Jamie just shook his head and rolled his eyes. "Escaped con." He answered. "Didn't you talk to Blake? That lady's been in and out of prison. Guess she picked up more than sewing lessons."

"Heh." Rumsfeld was still grinning. "I saw the girl. Quite a looker. That why you never saw it coming? Giving the suspect the once-over, were you? C'mon, ain't no shame in it, you're not the first copper to be laid low by a pretty face."

"Pretty face or not, she's got a wicked left hook." Jamie felt the bruise again and winced. "Dang. That's gonna leave a mark."

"Use foundation," suggested Trotwood. The others looked at him. He glared back defensively. "It works."

"I'll be fine." Jamie waved the concern away. "Face'll just have a bit more character for a few days, that's all." He glanced around the bar. "Where's Blake?"

Rumsfeld rolled his eyes. "Where else?"

"Working case." Trotwood clarified, raising his eyebrows.

Shrugging, Jamie picked up his glass. "Busy man. He tell either of you guys what that lady knew anyway? Like if we got any useful…"

"Hey."

The words came, hot and heavy, from somewhere just above and behind Jamie. Turning, he saw a heavyset man with a greying mane of hair and a scraggly beard looking down at them. "You rookies wanna make room for a REAL cop?"

Rumsfeld did not look happy. "Who you callin' rookie, Flass? I don't remember you being more than a wet-eared youngster in my day."

"Watch your tone, Tommy." Flass shoved his way to a seat. "Don't forget, I know the commissioner, after all. Used to be partners with him."

"Yeah, until he got enough rank to bust you." Rumsfeld snorted.

Flass ignored him. "Who's this new kid?" He asked, glancing over. "You got a name, rookie?"

"Jamie," was the answer. It was an unspoken rule of the Reagans to stick to first names in casual conversation. It just made things so much simpler.

"Well, JAMIE." Flass's breath stank of stale beer. "You're obviously new to all this, so I won't make a big deal of it, but it's kind of a Gotham tradition for the rookies to buy drinks for their superiors in exchange for a few… tips."

"Flass, you're so full of it, it ain't even funny." Rumsfeld shook his head derisively. "Not like you got any tips worth learning anyway."

"Hey," said Flass, the color in his face rising. "Say whatever you like, but no one can deny that I spent YEARS on the force, TEACHING the COMMISIONER HIMSELF nearly EVERYTHING he knows about the streets, and what's the thanks I get for it? Not even a decent drink from all the wet-eared milksops they got…"

"Ellie." Jamie raised his hand to call the waitress over. "Can you bring a drink for my friend over here?"

Ellie, a matronly woman of possibly thirty years looked at him, looked at Flass, shook her head, and took out her notepad. "This is just for the kid, Flass." She warned him. "You know you're not supposed to come around here."

"Shut up, woman," sneered the man. He flashed Jamie a yellowing smile. "At least SOME people seem to still have some respect for their betters around here." Returning his attention to Ellie, he ordered. "Gimmee any of that Devil's Kick you got in the back."

"Oh, HELL no." Ellie frowned. "You're getting whiskey and that's it. This kid wants to be generous to you, that's his affair, but I ain't letting you beggar him."

Flass snarled at her retreating back. "Can't mind her own business." Returning his attention to Jamie, he gave yet another ingratiating smile. "You got smarts, though, rookie. I can see it."

"Don't mention it." Jamie waved off the thanks. _Please._

"Flass here was a detective, back in the day." Arms crossed, Rumsfeld stared coldly across the table at the slovenly veteran. "He's got his own share of experiences with Batman, don't you Flass?"

Flass's red face got a few shades paler. "I knew that snake was trouble back when he first popped up. Told anyone who would listen but…" He waved vaguely. "…everyone was so sure he was the new 'Savior of Gotham' or whatever. You couldn't say a bad word about the guy."

He half-turned as Ellie returned with his drink. "Took you long enough." With a roll of her eyes, Ellie disappeared, and Flass seized the glass. The others watched in silence for a few moments as he gulped down the mug of beer, dribbling the amber liquid across his shirt.

"Never say nobody saw it coming," he said, setting it down with a sigh, wiping bits of froth from his beard. "Took it all the way to the top trying to warn them about that psycho. And next thing I know, I get booted. Cast to the curb. Ten years on the force, and they throw me out on some trumped-up charges of corruption, all for criticizing the department's guardian angel! When he finally went psycho and killed those cops, know what I did?" Flass stared at Jamie impressively. "I laughed. 'Cause it served them right, for not listening to me all those years ago."

"You don't say," responded Jamie, as neutrally as possible. You didn't have to be a genius to see Rumsfeld was about ready to explode.

"Lesson for you there, kid." Flass burped and stood up. "Always trust your instincts. That's what I got to say." And with that, he lumbered off into the bar.

Rumsfeld glared daggers at his back. "Good riddance, the pile of…"

"Was he really once partners with the commissioner?" Jamie looked after the man's burly form in disbelief.

"Back in their detective days, sure." Rumsfeld shrugged. "Course, that was partly just to keep an eye on the last honest cop in the department. Everybody was more or less on the take in those days, but Flass… heck, rumor was he did some work on the side as an enforcer for Falcone. And back then, Gordon didn't have anyone to back him up. Just him against the world." Smiling suddenly, Rumsfeld added, "Course, once Batman showed up it was a different story."

"Huh." Jamie thought about his grandfather and the Blue Templars, the group he'd founded to clean up the New York Police department. It wasn't quite vigilante justice, but it was close. It push had come to shove, what would Granddad have done, in Gordon's position?

"When Gordon started getting some rank and finally had the chance to tidy up things, Flass was one of the first to go." Rumsfeld glowered at what they could see of the man, seated at another table further along the room. "Now he just hangs around bars like a bad tick who won't let go."

"He have a job?" Jamie sipped his bottle thoughtfully.

"Security contractor." Trotwood supplied.

Nodding, Jamie looked away. "Sorta depressing to see what happens to a cop who loses his place on the force." He observed.

"Psh," scoffed Rumsfeld, waving the concern away. "Flass was never a real cop. He just liked having a fancy badge to bully people. Whenever the going got tough, he'd fold. Every damn time."

* * *

"No, Reagan, you're still injured and unfit for duty. I'm assigning you and your partner to patrol, we need to keep some semblance of order up top while it's going down under there."

"The hell you are!" Jamie exploded. "I'm not going to drive laps up here while all your other guys are off dying in those tunnels! 'Injured and unfit for duty' my ass… It's a freaking bruise! And you can't even see it anymore!"

Turning from the crowd of officers flooding into the tunnels, Assistant Commissioner Foley matched him glare for glare. "You'll do as I say. I need to keep some cops up here in case of emergency, and you're going to be one of them. That's the end of it."

"What the heck sort of emergency are you expecting? All the crime's in the tunnels!"

"There's a large group of _criminals_ in the tunnels." Foley corrected him, waving another SWAT team into the subway entrance. "There's still plenty of them up here, I'm sure, and they'd like nothing better than for all the cops to be busy elsewhere. At the very least we need to keep enough cops around town to make them THINK things are under control."

"Even though they rather obviously aren't."

"That'll do, officer." Foley snapped. "One more word and I WILL put you on modified assignment, Commissioner's son or not. In case you hadn't noticed, I'm a little busy here, and I've wasted enough time arguing with officers about their field assignments."

Jamie had no choice. Turning away, he strode up the hill back to his police car, fuming. A silent Rumsfeld followed in his wake.

* * *

"Injured and unfit for duty…" muttered Jamie angrily several miles later. "Seriously, who does he think he's kidding? It's painfully obvious what he's really doing. He's covering his own political ass again." He glanced across the car at Rumsfeld. "Y'know? That's all this is, really. More political bullshit because of who my dad is. That's all."

"Yup." Rumsfeld agreed wearily.

"I mean, he's sending practically the entire force in there EXCEPT me."

"I'm still here too, y'know," pointed out Rumsfeld, sending him a sardonic glance. "And there's at least five other cars circling the city right now."

"Right… a handful of old fogies and fresh rookies that he thinks would be more of a liability in a fight anyway. No offense." He added hastily.

Rumsfeld simply shrugged. "Eh. None taken. Though technically, I prefer the term 'veteran,' but if you can admit to being a fresh rookie I suppose I can confess to being an old fogie."

"It… sorry." Jamie slumped down in his seat. "It just doesn't seem fair…"

"You in this job, and still expecting the world to be fair?" Rumsfeld grunted. "Look. You've been here for what now, barely two months? That makes you wetter than the wettest recruit we got cutting his teeth on a steering wheel out here." He held up a hand to forestall Jamie's protests. "And yeah, you been a New York City cop for longer than that, but this ain't the Big Apple, this is Gotham."

Jamie crossed his arms and stared out the window. "This IS about my dad, though, you know."

"Course it is. But Foley's not the only one who's reacting with that in mind," answered Rumsfeld, shooting Jamie a penetrating glance. "You honestly think I can't tell you're rarin' to go on a mission like that_ specifically_ to prove you're not riding on Daddy's good graces?"

Jamie didn't look at him, but he shrugged. "It's something people'll accuse me of regardless of what I do." He said. "So it's a crime that I try to give them as little ammunition as possible?"

"Naw, but you don't need to cultivate the tough guy image so much either. Be honest: You think any other cop would even try to yell at Foley like that? Or that Foley would listen?"

Jamie said nothing. For a few moments they drove in silence.

"You know what this whole situation reminds me of?" Rumsfeld said suddenly. "The Narrows Riot."

"The one you never talk about?"

"Yeah, well… It's just similar, that's all. Arkham had gotten busted open and there were crooks running all over the island. Lowe called out all the stops, brought in every available unit to hunt them down. Raised the bridges so they couldn't get out."

"The cops?"

"No, you idiot, the crooks. The cops could get the bridge lowered whenever, they just didn't want all those Arkham nutjobs disappearing into the larger city." Rumsfeld rubbed his chin. "I was an overeager punk at the time… wasn't exactly on duty, but grabbed a uniform and ran out there anyway."

"What happened?"

There was a long silence and for a moment Jamie was afraid he wasn't going to get an answer this time either. But finally Rumsfeld sighed. "It's… hard to say. You probably read the reports… That whackjob Crane had poisoned the water supply for some reason, some other whackjobs found a way to release that in gas form…" Rumsfeld shrugged. "Technicalities. I still don't get the science behind it all. At the time it was just this weird thing. I was down on Cobblepot Ave helping some of the boys take down Zsasz—serial killer, before your time, but take my word for it, he was bad news—and all of a sudden the sewer top next to me just… explodes. And this white gas comes just boiling up out of it."

Jamie didn't say anything.

"At first I thought it might be… tear gas. Or something, I don't know. The boys and I got out our handkerchiefs and everything, but that stuff…" Rumsfeld shook his head. "It was just too fast. It was in our lungs before we knew what was happening. But it didn't sting or hurt or anything so I just figured… wasn't dangerous…" A curiously shaky laugh broke from Rumsfeld.

Another long silence. It struck Jamie that really the streets were bizarrely empty, but then perhaps that was because of the football game.

"Have you ever…" Rumsfeld stopped. "Ever had one of those really creepy nightmares that you wake up from and can't get out of your head? Or had one of those nights where you KNOW there's something in the darkness but you're too scared to scream because it'll hear you? I mean, staring down the barrel of a gun is scary—I've done it enough times—but this… this was something else entirely. It was…" Rumsfeld took a shaky breath. "Jeezus, Reagan, my partner's eyes were glowing. GLOWING, I tell you, and his face, it had this…" Rumsfeld gestured vaguely. "…it was horrible. And I had this feeling—you know how in nightmares, you know things no one's told you?—had this certainty that he was going to… kill me, I guess, but that doesn't quite get it."

Another laugh. "Guy who had me as best man at his wedding, and I shot him in the leg." Rumsfeld glanced at Jamie. "It was an accident, mind you. I was aiming for his head, but I was shaking so bad I couldn't shoot straight. He says he shot at me too, but hell, I don't remember that."

"Anyway." He said, after another pause. "Not sure what all happened after that. I blasted away at anything that moved until I was out, and then I just ran. Nowhere in particular just… ran. Everyone was running. Fighting, too. I bumped into some person and we got into it, and then everybody was getting into it…" Rumsfeld shook his head. "I'm pretty sure I had someone's ear in my teeth when we saw it."

"Saw what?" Jamie heard himself ask.

"We didn't know… then. It was this dark shape, just… flying up above the rooftops. Its eyes were glowing and we were pretty sure it was giving out this unearthly scream… Everyone was spooked. I mean, it was like the whole street of people just cringed away from it."

"You're kidding." Jamie cast a disbelieving look at his partner.

"Does this sound like the sort of thing I kid about?" Rumsfeld glared back. "Hey, I'll be the first to admit that I wasn't exactly of 'sound mind and body' at the time, but I saw what I saw. And so did everyone else in the narrows. It sent us scurrying back to whatever holes we could find until day, when Lowe managed to get some docs to us with the antidote."

Another silence, the longest of all. "So… that shape." Jamie began hesitantly. "That was…?"

"First time I really saw the Batman," nodded Rumsfeld. "I mean, sure his tank crashed over my car that night at the Asylum, but I hadn't ever seen the man himself, till then. If you can count drug-induced hallucinations, anyway." He grumbled suddenly, apparently embarrassed. "I guess the first time I REALLY saw him, like, without being doped to the gills, was about a month after that, when some mob hoods tried to jump me. Even then… heck, even now." Rumsfeld passed a hand through his greying hair. "…whenever I see him, my mind… just jumps back to that night at the Narrows and seeing him… flying above, glaring down." A short laugh. "Scares the willies out of me. Every time."

Another long silence.

"Guess I can see why you don't like to talk about that one."

Rumsfeld grunted. "Hey, kid, I got me a tough-guy image to keep…"

And suddenly the road erupted from underneath them, sending the car flying. Jamie caught a momentary glimpse of the skyline as the world flipped about his ears, finally ending itself upside down as the car crashed back to the pavement, shattering the windows, bending the doors in half, and giving Jamie a horrible welt from the seatbelt. The airbags didn't even deploy… there'd been no head-on collision.

"Rumsfeld? Rumsfeld?" Rumsfeld was a nonresponsive bloody mess in the driver's seat. Jamie struggled out of his seatbelt and half-fell to the ground. "C'mon man!" He said, reaching for his partner's belt.

But even before the rumblings of the streets had died down, a fresh explosion ripped through the buildings lining the road. Jamie jerked backwards as debris crashed into the car, thoroughly burying his partner. He had just enough sense to grab the shotgun from the car before running clear.

Caverns were tearing open the pavement, buildings were crumbling to the earth. Glass, concrete and steel were raining down raining down onto the street, and all Jamie could do was run…

* * *

It was a beautiful day in the most wonderful city on earth, and Police Commissioner Frank Reagan was in his office, going through the latest figures from the police academy, when the door to his office swung open in a way it really wasn't supposed to.

Frank looked up to see a breathless Garret Moore. "We need you in the situation room." He said.

It was the beginning of the worst six months the Reagan family would ever have.

**to be continued...**

* * *

**A/N: **And this brings us up to the beginning of the story. Sorry to everybody who started the story thinking it was ALL going to be about No Mans Land, but we're here now and we're ready to have fun.

The Reagan family has been taking a backseat to most of the action thus far. That's about to change. While they're not in danger like Jamie is, the events in Gotham are going to have a very real impact on them and on their world. They'll be showing up more in the next couple chapters as will (hopefully) more characters from the Nolanverse. I wasn't expecting to have Flass in this story, but I'm glad he showed up. I feel there are some fun things I could do with his character, and a couple other ones who vanished over the years. We'll have to wait and see.

REVIEWS are appreciated, incidentally. I like this story, but it does help me along to know that others are reading and enjoying it also.


	6. Hard Times

**Hard Times**

* * *

**No Man's Land, Day 1**

Jamie's first thought, after he saw what had happened to the police station, was to go back to his apartment. Well, to be strictly honest, his first thought was to get out of his police uniform and into something less noticeable, but all his clothes were at his apartment.

The journey was hectic—Jamie didn't know Gotham well enough to use anything but the main streets, and those weren't exactly safe for an officer right now. He ended up dodging in and out of a lot of ruined buildings, ducking for cover whenever he saw someone. It took him nearly two hours to make the journey this way. But no sooner had he reached the street than he pulled back and hid in the shadow of the building.

A mob of people—some carrying guns, but plenty of others just carrying random tools—were milling about in the street around a pile of shattered belongings. As Jamie watched, a laptop computer came sailing from an upstairs window to crash on the pavement. The people cheered and waved to the burly man laughing in the window.

The window was Jamie's, as was the laptop. The man Jamie recognized as his neighbor from downstairs, Mr. Cummerbatch. They'd had a few words about late-night parties, but Jamie hadn't expected this. Not so soon. He wondered if any of the other apartments were being looted—Mrs. Gummidge, his landlady, was sitting on the steps, crying.

Jamie swallowed thickly. Nothing to be done about it now. He turned away, but even as he did so, one of the mob caught sight of him. "Hey! There's one of those friggin' pigs!"

Stifling a curse, Jamie broke into a run. A few bullets whistled overhead, more designed to chase than to kill. Some broke from the mob to run after him, but Jamie had a headstart, and without the full support of the mob, the others were not so passionate about catching a cop. They soon turned away from the chase.

Jamie didn't stop running until he found a deserted alleyway. Shrugging out of his patrolman's jacket, he unpinned the various gleaming medals and emblems on its front and tossed them away. He likewise cleared the uniform underneath of such finery. His badge made him pause, but after a moment's thought he unbuckled it and stuffed it in his pocket. It would be bad to be caught with it, but it could also help if he ran into any other cops.

The shirt cleared, he unbuttoned it, took it off, turned it inside out, and put it back on, leaving it unbuttoned so it could drift about his waist, masking the belt and sidearm. Looking about in the trash, he found a tattered rucksack, big enough for him to stash the shotgun from the car. He stuffed his jacket in there too, shouldered the pack, and with a backward glance, made off into the depths of the city.

Jamie Reagan was now a cop without a city.

* * *

**New York City, Day 5**

_"…I'm very glad you asked that question, Paula. Obviously this incident brings up the question of how much we can ever trust any law-enforcement agency, and to what degree it is wise to…"_

"Turn that off." Frank Reagan snapped. Garret raised an eyebrow but obediently switched the set off. The Commissioner returned to his work. "Can't stop talking about it, can they."

Garret smiled ruefully at his boss. "It's the biggest scandal of the decade, Frank. Of course they can't. And if they did, people would be crying that they were in on the conspiracy."

"What conspiracy?" asked Frank in frustration. "The man lied. He confessed. One man. NOT an organization, not even a small group of liars. I've seen more elaborate dinner plans."

"Most dinners don't involve hundreds of convicts jailed without parole, Frank."

"Yes, but that's no conspiracy." Frank stood up and crossed the room to the window. "That's just politicians taking advantage of the lie Gordon started. And Gotham's the only city with that law anyway, prosecutors around the world have decried it. Half the country never cared about the Dent Act before, why are they so interested now?"

"Because now it's a story, and even better, a scandal," shrugged Garret, moving to the cabinet. He took out a bottle and a pair of glasses and began to pour. "You know how many people love to believe the government is lying to them. Gordon just gave them more ammunition."

Frank frowned at the protestors outside the station. "Heartwarming to see how quickly the city turns on its protectors."

"They're scared, Frank." Garret handed the commissioner a glass. "Dent was the shining icon of the law, and Gordon the stalwart symbol of its right hand. And now they've both been revealed to be shams. It'd be like if Mother Theresa got outed as a con artist or something."

"Gordon wasn't trying to con anyone, he was protecting his friend's reputation. And whatever Gordon's mistakes, it doesn't change the good he did in that city." Frank moved away from the window. "I can't approve of his actions—the second we start lying to the people, we say that the truth is fallible—but at the same time I can't condemn the man himself."

"Well, you'd better find a way to," answered Garret. "Those wolves outside have been raging for a press conference for about half a week now."

"I seem to recall doing one of our monkey shows nearly immediately after that madman's announcement."

Garret shrugged. "Apparently it wasn't worded strongly enough. Due to public pressure, the mayor is appointing an independent civilian commission to inspect the department, and it's important that you be seen supporting it."

"Important that I show approval of the way my brave men are going to be hauled out into the spotlight and have their years of fine service questioned," snorted Frank, dropping back into the chair at his desk.

"People need to see that you have nothing to hide, Frank. They need to have some sort of assurance that they can trust their government." Sighing at his boss's expression, Garret walked back over to the desk. "You know we can't risk being seen as weak or divided." He said quietly. "Not now."

"I know." Frank nodded. "I just don't like it."

* * *

**No Man's Land, Day 17**

"C'mon, man, it's just an energy bar." Jamie tried. "You telling me you can't spare a single energy bar for a guy?"

"Maybe you been outta the city the last couple days, kiddo, but in case you haven't noticed, we ain't exactly getting new shipments of these anymore." The storekeeper waggled the bar in front of Jamie temptingly. "These things are already worth way more than the ten bucks you're offering, and in a couple days they'll be worth their weight in gold. So give me a good reason why I should give my stock to you now instead of just waiting till it's worth more?"

Jamie ground his teeth. "Because I'm about three seconds from punching you down and taking the damn thing."

This seemed to give the shopkeeper pause, but after studying Jamie for a minute, he shook his head. "Naw. You don't look the type. Sure, you're hungry, but you ain't desperate."

Jamie wondered. He hadn't so much as looked at a mirror for over two weeks now… he knew his chin was getting bristly, and his coat was all rumpled and dirty from sleeping in too many alleys. He picked up food where he could, but pickings had been very slim the last couple days, and his stomach was practically screaming with pain at this point.

"Okay, look." He dug into his coat and ripped open a certain seam. "I keep this for emergencies, but I'm pretty sure this qualifies." Holding up the bill, he proffered it to the storekeeper. "100 dollars. For a measly energy bar. That's a price you won't get next week."

But the man simply laughed. "Really?" He smirked at the bill. "Seriously, kid, where have you been? All the green on that thing doesn't make it anymore than a weird bit of toilet paper, and not much at that. You're going to have to give me something real if you want to eat."

Jamie couldn't help but feel a little stupid. Of course paper money wasn't worth anything right now. At the same time, though, he felt a certain hollowness—he'd fallen upon his last resort, and it had failed him. There were no more safety nets to fall back on.

"Okay, look." He shook his watch down his arm. "See this? A rolex, right? That real enough for you? This thing's worth about at least five hundred bars on the open market, but I'll settle for fifty."

Again the storeman snorted. "Watch ain't much more than a bit of shiny jewelry right now. You get five."

Jamie shrugged. "I see plenty of people still wearing jewelry in the streets. Twenty-five."

"Everyone having them just means they're cheap. I could get a Rolex from a homeless guy. Ten."

"I AM homeless." Jamie glared. "And the one you'd get from him would be all dirty and half-smashed from people tossing the store open. Twenty."

There was a slight hesitation, and then the storekeeper nodded. "Done."

As he pushed back into the street, his pockets full of energy bars, Jamie wondered how he was going to explain to Danny about what he'd done with his birthday watch.

* * *

**New York City, Day 29**

"Reagan, Reagan, Reagan." The police sergeant massaged his face. "Why ya gotta do this to me, Reagan? Why now?"

Danny shrugged. "Beats me, sarge. What's the problem?"

"What's the problem? You hear that, Curatola, he asks what's the problem. The problem, Reagan, is that we got a suspect in our interrogation room with a black eye, a bloody nose, and what he claims to be a cracked rib."

"That rib ain't cracked. Besides, he resisted arrest," insisted Danny.

"Reagan, I was there. The guy ran a couple blocks and gave you a left jab that would make my grandma laugh." Curatola shook her head.

Danny took a sip of his coffee. "I'll admit my conscience does bother me a little bit about that last kick, but considering the man is under suspicion of rape and murder, I think I can live with the guilt."

"Can you live with a Yale lawyer breathing up your neck and a mob of reporters outside? Cause that's what I have to live with now, Reagan, thanks to you." The Sergeant put his hands on his hips. "Excessive force and harassment is just the beginning of this, Reagan, they're talking about hate crimes, bias, police conspiracy to suppress the OWS movement…"

"That guy is one of the Occupiers? You don't say?" Danny took another sip. "Wow. Surprise, surprise, a murderer running with that bunch."

"Alleged murderer," groaned the sergeant. "Promise me you'll remember to say that when the media talks to you, because believe me, Reagan, they WILL talk to you. And probably everybody else in the precinct. After them, it'll be that independent commission that the mayor started going… I mean, damnit, Reagan, you can't keep doing crap like this!"

"Look sarge, I followed the rules this time, okay? I told him to stop, he didn't stop, I chased, I brought him down. When he took a swing at me, I swung back."

"And threw him to the ground, and kicked him a couple times, and spat on him..." Curatola reminded him.

Danny shot her a dirty look. "Hey, whose side are you on anyway? The point is, I had probable cause. Mighta gotten out of hand, but I had reasons. Any judge in New York City would clear me."

"Maybe and maybe not, Reagan, but you're not dealing with a judge. You're dealing with a raging mob outside the precinct, and you need to convince THEM that you had probable cause." The sergeant reminded him.

"Convince?" Danny's cup stopped halfway to his lips.

"Oh yeah." The sergeant had a sort of amused triumph on his face. "Did I forget to mention? I told those vultures when they first came in here that the implicated officer would be happy to release a statement detailing his side of the story. They said they'd expect it by 4:00 today. And hey! Look at that!" He checked his watch. "It's just past 3! Guess you'd better get some sort of speech figured out, Reagan."

* * *

**No Man's Land, Day 43**

Eating at homeless shelters had given Jamie a whole new appreciation for the underprivileged. He'd always assumed that even the chronically unemployed could just find a charity to hole up in until their luck turned around.

To some extent, he still believed that. This was the fifth one in the last two weeks he'd hid out in—partly to avoid attention from regulars, but also partly in the hopes that he could find one where the food WASN'T awful.

To be fair, though because of the way the bottom had fallen out of the economy and the whole city descended into chaos since Bane's takeover. No one could afford the food they were used to. Sure, the rich and powerful had been the first to be looted, but a few mega-churches had gotten trashed early on also. No one was being exactly generous right now, and the charities were hurting for resources.

Fortunately (or perhaps not), those eating at shelters had also thinned out. Plenty of homeless people had found homes in the last few days, irrespective of who might be in them already. And begging for food had lost a lot of its appeal once beating for food had been legalized.

Jamie forced another bit of tasteless waffle-bread down his throat, washing it down with his glass of mostly-flat soda water. All things considered, he supposed he should be grateful for what he could pick up at a place like this.

Someone sat down across the table from him. Jamie looked up to behold a pale, slightly rounded man in a rumpled suit. "Okay if I sit here?"

Jamie shrugged. "You already have."

"Sorry." The man tried a quick smile. "Just… trying not to cause any trouble, that's all."

He was obviously nervous, which was no surprise—anybody wearing a suit in the streets was likely to get hauled off to that court they were supposedly forming at town hall. Jamie was rather surprised this guy hadn't gotten rid of his already. But then, the man didn't give the impression of being especially bright—a corporate suit, with a head possibly for numbers and not much else.

"You're… ah… you're not one of them, are you?" asked the man, tentatively.

Jamie raised an eyebrow. "Do I look like one?"

Nearly immediately after the words left his mouth, he reconsidered… after all, he WAS wearing a coat he'd grabbed from a looted store, he DID have a pretty scraggly beard by this time, and he probably didn't look so great, given his general lack of sleep. Maybe he did look like one of the looters.

"Would I be here if I was?" He tried instead.

This seemed to have a more reasonable effect, for the man subsided. "Sorry." He gave a nervous laugh. "Guess I'm just a little jumpy. They trashed my place just today and I've been…"

"HEY! I recognize you!" Jamie turned to behold two burly men standing in the door. One of them was pointing in their general direction. "Guess you were right, Joe, he did run in here!"

"We got you now, Reese!" snarled the other, pushing his way across the room.

Reese gave a little gurgle of fear and rocketed up from the table, practically tripping over the chair in his haste to run for the exit. The occupants of the room screamed and scattered as the men drew weapons and fired after the little man, running through the tables after Reese, right toward Jamie.

Jamie barely had time to think about it. He stuck out his leg and sent the first man sprawling. The second one swung at him and he caught the arm, using it as a ladder to half-rise and plant a fist in the man's stomach. Using a move Danny'd taught him from his time in the Marines, he continued with the momentum and swiveled around behind the man's back, twisting the arm behind him and grabbing the man's gun hand.

He was just in time. The first man froze at the click of his partner's gun.

"This place is called a shelter." Jamie panted. Now that the moment was wearing off, he felt a strange mixture of fear and exhilaration. "Respect it."

"What the hell you protecting a fatcat like him for, man?" protested the man on the ground.

The man in Jamie's grip twisted. "You one of them, aren't you? One of those moneybag types. You're dead, man! You and all of your kind!"

"Put your gun on the ground and slide it over to me." Jamie directed.

The man did so, his features contorted with rage. "You just wait!" He hissed. "You just wait! It's a new day in Gotham! Time for you and all your fat-bellied friends to get tossed out of those plush seats you've been in all these years!"

Jamie trapped the gun under his foot. "I'm going to let you go." He told the man he was holding. "And I want you, and your friend, to back up slowly toward the exit. No sudden moves. And I want you…" He pushed the man forward suddenly and trained his gun on him, "…to treat this place with respect from now on."

"Just leave like that, huh?" The man sneered, making no move. "Maybe you missed something, punk, but there's two of us and one of you. How you gonna keep us both covered?"

"If you'd had any kind of training you'd know it's not that hard." A new voice rang out. Another man was standing in the door, gun in hand. "Especially with backup."

Jamie blinked. "Blake."

"Reagan," nodded John, sparing him a glance before returning to the thugs. "Now I suggest you boys leave."

Snarling, the pair left.

Jamie holstered his gun. "Boy, am I glad to see you, Blake."

"Likewise." The detective nodded, clasping hands with him. Turning away, John addressed the shelter pastor, who had stood by, silent, through the whole ideal. "Father Mark, you'd best clear out of here. Your people too. Bane's goons will come by here soon enough, looking for blood."

"We are doing God's work here," insisted the priest. "We are harming no one."

"Doesn't make a difference. They'll be mad and they'll want to take it out on somebody. Won't much matter who." Blake looked back at Jamie. "The guy in the street said those two were after a business type? Suit of some kind?"

"Oh, ah…" Jamie glanced around, distracted, before finding the man in question, crouched under one of the upended tables. "Mr. Reese? Mr. Reese, we need to leave."

Reese came crawling out from under the table, glancing around apprehensively. "I'm not… I don't want to get in any…"

"You can come with us." Blake gestured. "We've got a… safehouse of sorts for you guys."

"We?" Jamie glanced at the detective.

"Gordon and Foley survived the attack, got some of the boys together. Trotwood's down there. Couple other guys too. Not much of a police force, but we get by." Blake grabbed Reese by the arm and pulled the terrified accountant into the street. "C'mon, let's get going."

* * *

**New York City, Day 47**

"Explain this to me again, Ms. Reagan-Boyle." The judge frowned at her. "You want to try the defendants for attempted murder, public endangerment, and terrorism?"

"Preposterous, your honor," scoffed the defense. "They're simply a local chapter of the Occupy Movement, a legal and peaceful gathering. To use their political leanings as grounds of terrorism is…"

Erin shook her head. "Do most 'legal and peaceful gatherings' build a bomb and try to mail it to city hall?"

"The bomb was merely a prank. It wouldn't have exploded."

"That's more due to ineptitude than intent," answered Erin drily. "The minutes recovered from their apartment indicate a clear desire to, I quote, 'make all those sons-of-bitches burn.'"

"Harmless threats!" insisted the defense. "Little more than an exercise of first amendment rights."

"Rights which do not include trying to build a bomb!"

"Your honor, the department only has proof that the bomb was built in the building and given to a member of the chapter." The defense lawyer appealed to the judge. "This trial is a gross example of our police forces profiling a particular group merely for their political organization."

"That's a matter for the trial, not the arraignment," answered the judge, shaking his head. "I'm allowing the charge." The gavel banged down. "Next Ccse!"

Erin gathered up her files as the others began to file out. The defense lawyer walked up to her. "Careful, counselor. Your bias is showing."

"Bias has nothing to do with it," snorted Erin, looking up at the man. "What your clients were contemplating was terrorism, regardless of affiliation. And honestly, Ronald, your organization could do without this press. You'd do better to decry their actions like any other decent person would do."

The lawyer smiled. "Cunning, but no. It'll take more than trumped-up charges to make Occupiers desert their own. However, may I return your friendly advice with some of my own?" Leaning closer, he continued in an undertone. "It might look… suspect for the state to try this particular case with such a… personally involved prosecutor."

Erin's expression did not change. "Thank you for your concern, Ronald, but that's a matter for the DA's office."

"Suit yourself."

Erin returned to her desk to find a notice from the DA that she was being removed from the case. Three days later, the jury handed in a verdict of Not Guilty.

* * *

**No Man's Land, Day 64**

Jamie sidled up to the building and rapped on the door. "Serve."

"Protect," came the muffled reply behind the door. There was the sound of a latch being drawn, and Deputy Commissioner Foley opened the door, shotgun in hand. "Good to see you back, Reagan. Trotwood."

"Sir," nodded Trotwood, pushing past him.

"Report, officer Reagan," said Gordon, without taking his gaze from the map on the table.

"Sir," answered Jamie, stepping forward. "We found Mr. Cobblepot. Third Street Irregulars had him, they were keeping him in a cage in the old museum there. Managed to sneak in and get him out before anyone noticed. Once we had him, we made fast tracks out and took the side streets to the safe house. Took him up to the 20th floor and got him settled, Mr. Elliot said he'd look after him. Came back forthwith."

"Cobblepot." Gordon shook his head. "Never guessed we'd be rescuing that son-of-a-bitch. You ask me, might have been better to leave him with those animals. Could've learned a thing or two."

"That's not our call, Jim." Foley pointed out. "He's a citizen in need of protection."

"He's a launderer, a thief, and a swindler; that's what he is," snorted Gordon.

Blake was tending the fire in the center of the room. "Didn't he use to run the Lower Gotham Vultures?"

"Nothing we could ever prove, but yes." Gordon grunted. "Dropped out of the business when organized crime went south, but never REALLY went clean."

"We don't know that. Innocent till proven guilty." Foley reminded his boss.

"Whatever this guy's crimes, trust me, he didn't deserve what they were doing to him," put in Jamie. As the rookie, he felt a little awkward giving his opinion, but after a few weeks of fighting side-by-side with these men, he was a lot more confident. "Can't say I cared for his attitude on the way over, but he deserves a fair trial, not one of those trumped-up ones that maniac is handing out down at the courthouse."

"I know." Gordon sighed, pushing the glasses up and rubbing his eyes. "I just... Bane says we're these tools just meant to protect the rich and corrupt, and what are we doing? Protecting the rich and corrupt."

"All due respect, sir, they're not exactly 'rich' anymore."

"I suppose." Gordon muttered. "Elliot say anything about what they need up there?"

Trotwood dug a paper out of his pocket and handed it to Jamie. "Says they're running low on food again, that Mr. Corpendagen needs his medication, that the beds are too hard, and that they'd like more guards." Jamie handed the list over to the commissioner. "Also asks if we could get some books in, says folks are getting sort of restless."

"They want chocolates on the pillows too?" Gordon snorted. "And medication… Every damn pharmacy in this city's been busted apart. Can't even find a good case of Sudaffed anymore. Heck, half of the legal drugs have been snorted up by kids too desperate to tell the difference."

"We gotta get it someway." Jamie shrugged.

Sighing, Gordon set the list aside. "I'll see what I can do. But if we try to fit many more of them into that building, folks are going to notice. Might be time to open up another safe house, spread things out a bit."

"Not many safe buildings left, Jim." Foley warned.

"Don't really have a choice, now do we?" Gordon offered a lopsided grin. "Blake, how are things with the shelters going?"

Blake shrugged. "Most of the charities in the city have been looted, boss, though some of the lesser-known ones have stayed afloat. Children homes are still mostly intact, though I had Rev. Hatton ask me last week if we could spare some men to guard them… apparently they're having trouble with perverts trying to break in."

"Damnit." Gordon hissed. "Can't just leave them, but we don't have many men…"

"Why not assign some of those fat cats to help out there?" Blake suggested. "Like not the celebrity ones, but some of the lesser guys. Most've them have beards and stuff… nobody'd recognize them. And just a few more bodies around the place might be enough to deter the perverts."

A tired smile flickered on Gordon's lips. "Son, you've got an evil mind. I like it, get Elliot to pick some names."

"Yes sir."

"Trotwood, I want you to go out scrounging tonight. See if you can find any more food. We're starting to run a little short ourselves here."

"Sir."

"Foley…" Gordon paused to look up at his second. "I want you to take over the Second precinct."

Foley blinked. "I thought Simmons was in charge of Second."

"He was. Some of Bane's men gunned him down last night." Gordon shook his head. "They're disorganized over there. Get down and whip them into shape. We've got few enough cops as it is. See if you can get them to secure a working generator, too… winter's coming up fast and no one wants to freeze."

"Yes sir."

"Reagan." Jamie nearly snapped to attention at Gordon's word. "Go through the pharmacies, see if you can find any of these medications that they're begging for." Sighing, Gordon handed the list over. "Skip anything that looks like a diet aid or an anti-depressant. We're supposed to keep them alive through all this." Slumping back to his chair, the commissioner gave a tired smile. "No one ever said the apocalypse would be comfortable."

* * *

**New York City, Day 79**

"I tell you, things are changing. It's just a matter of time before New York catches up."

Nikki tried to block Crystal out. Why had they even invited her to the coffeeshop? She'd only been at the school two months and already Nikki couldn't stand her. The girl could just not shut up, it seemed.

"It's just historical. Economic hardship and chaos leads to the rise of a new order. It's what the French and the Russian Revolutions were based on. You get too extreme of a divide between the rich and the poor, and violence is certain to ensue." Crystal sipped her coffee. "Honestly, it's like these guys never looked at a history book."

Better to focus on the website just in front of her. Apparently her post had garnered a few comments. MoneySpider563 and 0r4cl3 had made especially long responses.

"Hey, speaking of history, how did all you guys do on the last test?" asked Karen, in a valiant attempt to regain the conversation.

"Oh please," snorted Crystal, before any of the others could respond. "What do any of those papers matter if you can't apply the knowledge to real life?"

"You failed it, didn't you." Nikki responded drily.

Nettled by the other's giggles, Crystal sent her an icy glare. "I did FINE, thank you very much. I just… don't see the point in running over dead facts while history is being created right in our own time!"

"History's always being created." Already Nikki was regretting not keeping her mouth shut. "That's why they call it history."

Crystal rolled her eyes. "But not like today. Not like being in the middle of a second American Revolution!"

Nikki just sighed and turned back to her computer, but Crystal didn't let up. "People in cities all over America have been wanting to throw off their oppressors for years! Bane just put the power in their hands!"

"Oh, whatever!" Susie scoffed. "Like everyone's dream is to stick a big bomb in the middle of a city!"

"Didn't you say your aunt and uncle were in Zucotti Park?" Crystal sneered.

"Yes! To protest peacefully! Not…" Susie waved her arms vaguely, "…blow up buildings and unleash prisoners and stuff!"

"Unlawfully jailed prisoners," insisted Crystal.

Nikki focused on the screen. 0r4cl3's post was compelling. It read: _ FutrCop I totally get where you're coming from. I've got family trapped in Gotham too, and I just can't believe the government isn't doing anything. If you ask me…_

"You know, your aunt and uncle would follow Bane more, if they had the guts to." Crystal was still going. "I'll bet they want to, but so far Bane's the only one who really has the courage to go all the way with his convictions."

Okay, that was not just a political jab, but a personal one. Nikki looked up. "I don't see YOU blowing up any train stations. In fact, I don't even see you camping out anywhere except in your high-rise apartment,"

Crystal's jaw tightened, but she tried to laugh the jab off. "Not all of us are the camping sort." She informed Nikki. "Besides, who blows up train stations? Too many innocent civilians around. I'd blow up a police station."

There was a sudden silence around the table. Nikki sat back from her computer. "Police station." She nodded.

"Yeah!" snapped Crystal, apparently oblivious to the apprehensive looks the others were throwing around. "They're the ones who keep the pigs in power! You know, they SAY they protect us all, but everyone knows they only really care when someone rich gets hit. If you ask me, those cops in Gotham got what they deserved."

A small gasp escaped Karen.

Nikki closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them to give Crystal a cold smile. "You're new to the school, so I'm going to assume you said that without knowing anything about my family." She informed the girl. "But if you _ever_ say anything like that again? I will slap you so hard, your teeth will bruise."

Crystal was starting to realize she'd made a mistake, but still she didn't back down. "Whatever." She snorted. "You're just a coward like the rest, all talk and no…"

She knew she shouldn't do it, but Nikki still felt there was something profoundly satisfying about punching the girl in the nose.

* * *

**No Man's Land, Day 93**

"So this is what it's like to break into a place."

"Quiet." Trotwood hissed, as his bolt-cutter chopped through the padlock.

Jamie shrugged and pushed the door open a crack, just wide enough for him and Trotwood to slip into the darkness. "Just saying." Whispered Jamie again, dropping his bag and flashing his light along the walls of the warehouse. "You think this is what it's always like for them, hiding, on the run, jumping at the first noise they hear?"

"Only if they're chicken." Trotwood snorted. He was stationed near the door, his sidearm at the ready. "Like you. Check crates."

Reaching into the bag, Jamie pulled out a crowbar and jammed it between the lid before prying back. The wood groaned and then pulled loose, nails and all. Jamie pushed the lid open the rest of the way and shone his flashlight inside. "Yup." He nodded. "Looks like the intel was good."

Trotwood relaxed, ever so slightly. "Load up."

Nodding, Jamie reached deep into the crate and began to pick out packs of Quaker's Oatmeal. "Always hated this stuff when I was little." He muttered, stuffing them into the bag. "All slimy and cold…"

"It's food," pointed out Trotwood.

"Oh, trust me, they're looking VERY tasty right now." Jamie chuckled. "I mean, think about it… oatmeal cookies, oatmeal pie, oatmeal cake…"

Trotwood glanced over at him. "Cake?"

"I'm getting carried away," answered Jamie, shaking his head. Zipping his bag shut, he turned to the door. "Toss me yours, would you?"

Another dufflebag sailed through the air and landed next to him. Jamie started to shovel packs into it. "Y'know, there's no way we're going to be able to carry out even a full crate of this stuff."

"Come back later. More people. More bags."

"More risk." Jamie argued. "A bigger group is more noticeable, and the more times we come here, the more we establish a pattern."

Trotwood shrugged again. "Need food."

It was true. Word was Bane's men were brokering a deal with the government to let in various aid groups—just food and medical supplies. While that WAS good news, no one in "Gordon's Gang" (as they had come to be known) believed they would see a crumb of that food. And what reserves they had were fast dwindling.

Jamie zipped the bag shut. "Okay, we're good." He slid the bag across the floor to Trotwood, who picked it up with a grunt.

"Time to go," said the other cop, looking rather ludicrous with the way his skinny frame was holding up the enormous bag.

Just then was when all hell broke loose.

Someone must have noticed them entering, or maybe the whole thing was a setup. They never did find out. But just as they were heading for the door, it crashed open, knocking Trotwood to the ground, and five men charged in, weapons in hand.

Jamie barely had time to think. The crowbar was still in his hand and the men practically on top of him. Practically on instinct he swung, and the cold metal thudded on the foremost man's skull. Jamie half-expected it to explode apart in cartoonish fashion, but the man's head simply jerked with the blow and he fell to the ground. Jamie swung again, but the second man dodged back from it. The third man leapt on him from the side, and Jamie wrestled in his grip, but already the fourth and fifth were coming up behind him.

Shots rang out. They had forgotten Trotwood. The scrawny little man was on the ground, and his forehead was bleeding, but his pistol was in his hand. One of the men tumbled down, cursing with pain, the others dove for cover.

Jamie dropped the bag and dashed over to Trotwood, snatching up the sub-machine gun from the fallen man as he did so. Shots were already peppering the air. "We need to go!" He shouted to Trotwood.

But the scrawny man just shook his head. "Need food." He answered, tight-lipped. "Sure to be more outside anyway."

Unable to argue with that, Jamie shouldered the gun. He hadn't exactly fired many assault weapons in his career as an officer, but there was a first time for everything. He could see a dark shape slowly working around the left corner of a stack of crates. Leveling the weapon, he pulled the trigger.

The gun didn't have much kickback, but the muzzle waved around alarmingly, spraying its little bullets in every possible direction. None of them seemed to hit the shape, but it ducked back behind the crates. Shaking his head, Jamie threw the gun aside and pulled out his pistol. Trotwood was already snapping off cold, clear shots over the top of the crate.

Suddenly a new series of shots rang out—sharp, single cracks. A rifle, Jamie realized. Someone else was in the warehouse? Already one of the chattering submachine guns was silent.

The door beside them gave a sudden creak, and Jamie whipped around. There was a tall, dark figure practically standing over them, pulling something from his pocket.

A shot. The man's head whipped back and he tumbled down. It took Jamie a second to realize that'd he'd been the one to fire, but that was all the time he had. Swiveling back to the front, he just caught sight of one of Bane's men, crouching on top of the crates, aiming down at them. Again Jamie fired, the loud_ bang_ of his pistol resounding with the _crack_ from the rifle. The man fell from his lofty perch, crashing against the lower crates before hitting the ground with a sickening_ thud_.

There was just a short moment of silence before another figure came out from the darkness, rifle raised.

"Freeze!" Jamie shouted.

The figure lowered his rifle with a chuckle. "Freeze? Seriously? Guess that clears up who you guys are. Didn't know we still had cops above ground."

"Well then it's a night of surprises for all of us," said Jamie, as he and Trotwood stood. Neither lowered their guns. "Who're you?"

The man shrugged as he came further in the light—a bald, close shaven man wearing a thick jacket over his burly frame. "Robert Nagel. Used to work by the docks. Here for the same reason as you, I guess… need the food. I heard you guys come in, thought I'd just wait for you to leave, but when THEY showed up…" He shrugged.

Jamie lowered his pistol, but did not holster it. "Appreciate the assist." He said, glancing over to the door and the body slumped by it. "Even as it was, this guy nearly got the drop on us… must have been waiting outside." Kneeling, Jamie turned the corpse—yes, that was a nice gaping hole he'd made in the head—over. In his hand, the man clutched not a gun, but a radio.

"Must've been about to call for backup," observed Nagel, coming up alongside him. "Probably didn't even see you guys. Good catch, otherwise we might be swimming in goons right now."

"Still need to go." Trotwood hissed. "Made too much noise."

Jamie nodded. "Tell you what." He said, finally holstering his pistol and picking up the bag. "You forget you saw us and we'll forget we saw you."

"I got a better idea," grunted Nagel. "Need an extra hand in that band of yours?" In response to their looks, he rolled his eyes. "I just SHOT three of Bane's muscle." He explained. "Kinda doubt the mob's going to care why."

Jamie saw the man's point. "It's not our call, but help us bring this stuff back to the station—" indicating the bags, "—and we'll put it to the commissioner."

"You trust him?" Trotwood arched an eyebrow at Jamie.

Sighing, Nagel rolled up his sleeve. "See that?" He said, pointing at the tattoo. "10th infantry regiment. That good enough for you?"

Jamie looked to Trotwood, who just shrugged and looked away. "For now." He said. "Now, grab a bag and let's get out of here."

* * *

**New York City, Day 106**

"…so I got this preppy bank robber guy up against the wall, right? And IsweartaGod, he lets out in this loose little falsetto, 'Watch my nails!' Like this suit got a manicure before coming to stick up a bank!" Sergeant Renzulli let out a deep-throated chuckle as he relaxed against the seat. "So y'know what I did? I just smashed that hand of his right into the tile. Guy screamed like I was breaking his wrist."

Officer Cruz just laughed and shook his head. "I would have chipped a couple of his lady-finger nails when I was cuffin' him."

"That's 'cause you're a cruel son-of-a-bitch, Cruz." Renzulli threw the other a mock glare. "Y'need to have more of the milk of human kindness. Y'know, like me."

Cruz saluted. "Yes sir. Forthwith."

"_Attention all units_." Their radios crackled into life. "_Attention all units. We have a reported burglary in Zucotti Park."_

Cruz and Renzulli looked at each other but said nothing.

"_I repeat, we have a 911 call from a Susan Reynolds in Zucotti Park. Officers, please respond_."

"Nice day," commented Renzulli, looking out the window.

Cruz nodded. "Leaves look beautiful for this time of year."

"Ain't dat the truth."

_"Repeat, reported Burglary in the Park!"_ The dispatcher's voice took on a more frustrated tone. _"Come on, you guys, patrols have been doubled down there, I KNOW someone's close."_

Rolling his eyes, Renzulli touched his shoulder radio. "Sergeant Renzulli here, responding to Burglary."

_"Roger that."_ The radio clicked into silence.

Renzulli sighed and leaned further back into the seat. "Terrible traffic this time of day." He noted to Cruz.

"Tell ya, Sarge, it's awful." Cruz shook his head mournfully. "Take us forever to get there."

"Yeah, well, that's a shame," nodded Renzulli. He blew out air through his nose. "Three months…" he muttered.

Cruz cocked an eyebrow at him. "Only that long? Seems like it's been more."

"Eh…" Renzulli waved his hand. "Give or take a week."

"Hey, you tight with Reagan's family, right?" At Renzulli's shrug, Cruz pressed, "You know if there's been any word?"

Renzulli grunted. "Not that they told me about. Course, if there was, for all I know they might be bound to secrecy and be talking to CIA types about it. I tell ya one thing…" Renzulli shook a finger. "Danny, his big brother? He better tone it down a notch or two. Press is screaming for his head already."

"You ask me, press is screaming for everyone's head these days," laughed Cruz. "I swear, it's like the French Revolution around here."

Renzulli nodded sagely. "Don't know where they get off always moaning about 'police discrimination' and such crap. I mean, c'mon, we're putting our lives on the line for the community, and what have those jerk Occupiers done? Nothing. If there was some enormous storm what hit this place, we'd all be out there, helping put the city back together, and what would they be doing? Nothing, that's what."

"Read in the paper the other day something about a journalist who was leaving to go over to Gotham. Says he'd be like a wartime correspondent," commented Cruz.

"Wartime casualty, more like." Sighing, Renzulli turned the key and gunned the engine into life. "Well, c'mon, let's go see who burglarized some terrorist's 'common property.'"

"Forthwith." Cruz gave a mock salute as the car pulled away.

* * *

**No Man's Land, Day 111**

"Alright, the next gas station is on Peters and Ninth. Good news is, there's a whole clump of them right there, so we can clear a number off our list."

Jamie just shook his head. "Sir, I know Nagel's truck is a great resource and all, but with all these gasoline runs, I'm starting to hate the damn thing."

"Knock it off, Reagan." Foley sent him a smirk. "Anyway, this isn't just for the car. Weather gets much colder, we're going to need stuff to burn."

"That mean we can look forward to more of these, sir?"

"You got it, Reagan." Foley folded up the map. "Unless the government starts sending gas in on those aid trucks of theirs."

"Wouldn't do that. Gas is a military resource, Bane can use it for his tanks and trucks. Explosives too, if it comes to it." Jamie objected.

Foley just shrugged as they moved off down the street. "Government's done a lot of things I wouldn't have thought it'd do, son. People need heat. Electric blankets ain't gonna cut it. And so far, Bane's been surprisingly accommodating about not rationing the pipeline."

"That WAS surprising." Jamie agreed. "Thought Trotwood would come back from the aid station with no food and a chest full of holes."

"Bane says he's not running the city, so he's not seizing supplies donated to the people. And, apparently, not limiting who gets what either. Gordon didn't think it'd work either, but Trotwood agreed to try it. And now…" Foley shrugged. "…well, we're not eating oatmeal 24/7."

"All due respect, sir?" Jamie arched an eyebrow at Foley. "Food's one thing. Gas's another."

"Bane's principle holds for both. Come on, kid, I know it's rough living—you're probably used to a lot softer stuff with your family…"

"I live by myself, on my own salary." Jamie cut the Deputy Commissioner off. "Six days of the week, I eat Ramen noodles and cheap Chinese like the rest of you. I go for a dinner with a family once a week, but that's it."

Foley was silent for a bit. "Well… right. I didn't mean to say…"

"It's all right." Jamie shrugged. "I get it. Everybody thinks the same thing. Just nobody in my family does."

"That's because it's not normal, Jamie." A sigh escaped Foley. "You've got an impressive family there, Jamie. I hope you know that."

"Thank you, sir." There was a short pause as Jamie debated internally whether or not to ask something incredibly rude. "Sir, you're not just saying that in hopes I'll tell it to my pop, are you?"

Foley looked at him askance. "The city's in ruins, all communication is down, and the people of Gotham are rioting back into the stone age." He responded. "Brown-nosing seems rather pointless at the moment."

Jamie had to chuckle at that. "Right. Sorry sir. It's just…" He hesitated again. "Guy with a family like mine… you learn to take compliments with a grain of salt."

"Must be rough."

A shrug. "Not really… rough, sir, but… you wonder. I mean, Dad would NEVER do anything to affect my career. You wouldn't believe how hard he tries NOT to be partial. And everyone in the department knows it. But at the same time…" Jamie gestured. "What cop in his right mind is going to mouth off to the Commissioner's son? Who's going to make a guy like that his enemy? Every time I get a citation or a medal, I just… I just wonder. Am I really doing a good job, or is everyone just saying that because of my pop?" Another shrug. "Kinda a cheesy problem, I guess, but it bugs you. Still not quite sure whether I'm actually any good at what I do." A snort escaped him. "Though I guess my brother Danny might have something to do with that too."

Foley looked over at him, his expression odd. "Well, I'd tell you you're doing splendidly, but you still wouldn't know whether to believe it."

"As you said, civilization's crumbling. Whole thing seems kind of moot." Jamie shrugged.

"Mm." Foley grunted. He seemed to be considering something. "Reagan, how much do you know about the history of Gotham City?"

Jamie considered. "Just what I've heard… City used to be horribly corrupt, all tied up in organized crime until the Batman broke up the gangs and Gordon cleaned up the police department."

"You heard more than that." Foley grinned at the younger officer. "You went to Harvard, right? What'd you hear about the legal side of things?"

"I was never terribly diligent in my studies at Harvard." Jamie laughed shamefacedly. "But lets see… My sister Erin talked about Rachel Dawes and Harvey Dent, how it took some courageous ADA's to put away the big bad boys." A thought struck him. "She's probably really upset over all that stuff that came out about him."

Foley gave a commiserating nod. "That's more than most hear. Most people only know about the Batman and Harvey Dent. They figure the GCPD cleaned itself up and that Dent did all that great lawyering stuff himself." Foley chuckled, but it had a somewhat sad tone. "Nobody hears about the judge, because no one wants to remember him."

"The judge?" Jamie glanced around.

"My father," explained the Deputy Commissioner. "The 'right honorable' Judge Foley. Presided over the Gotham Courtroom for… oh, I don't know. Probably over thirty years."

"He cleaned up the city?" Jamie asked.

"Just the opposite," answered Foley, throwing another slightly sad look at the junior officer. "My father took kickbacks from most of the major mob bosses in the city. He didn't do it to protect my mom and I or anything, he just did it to pad his pockets." There was a trace of bitterness in the man's tone. "Everyone knew about it, but nobody bothered to do anything. It's just how things were in Gotham, back then." Foley snorted suddenly. "Or at least, how things were until the night Batman broke into our house and beat my father to a pulp, right in front of me."

"He what?" Jamie glanced at the man in shock.

"Broke in." Foley repeated. "My father was drunk, and yelling at my mom about something… the laundry, I think… and all of a sudden the windows just smashed and Batman was in the room. He punched my father thirteen different ways and then hauled him out the window."

"Holy crap. Seriously?"

"I was maybe fourteen at the time." Foley nodded.

Jamie whistled and shook his head. "Must've been pretty scary."

"It's funny, everybody I've told that story says that." Foley smiled. "Even the ones who knew my father, like Gordon. Course, I guess even THEY didn't have to live with the guy. My father resigned the next day, and my mother split from him shortly after. I went with her. That night was the night my life turned around."

"So you joined the police force… because of Batman?" Jamie frowned.

"I joined the police force," Foley clarified, "because I wanted to clean up the mess my father had left. Partly Batman, partly Gordon, to be honest—my father was always groaning about what a headache he was—but mostly my dad. In a weird, twisted, teenage-rebel sort of way."

Jamie considered this. "Can't have been easy."

"Not in the usual way," shrugged Foley. "Police were still plenty corrupt back then, and some of my dad's old buddies put me on the fast track… always doing favors, giving me promotions. I knew I didn't deserve them, but there wasn't a lot I could do about it. All the cops knew about the favors, too, AND who's kid I was. Took a while to convince people I was on the level. And now…" Sighing, Foley looked up at the sky. "Like you say, Reagan, it's all academic now. But I feel sometimes like I was never really a cop, just a politician. Or worse yet, that I'll never be one, and that when push comes to shove, I'm just as rotten as my father was."

There was a long silence. Jamie tried to think of something to say; silences like this could be fatal. You wanted to respond nearly immediately with a denial, and be firm and steadfast in it. But you also wanted to be genuine. Jamie didn't know enough about the city, he didn't know enough about Foley…

Finally he shrugged. "Guess that's something we'll both find out when the moment comes."

"Heh. Guess so." Foley smiled. He pointed up the street. "There's our gas station."

* * *

**New York City, Day 120**

"No, I don't want to read the latest findings of the internal investigation," Frank snapped. "I have no desire to look through accounts of how the brave men of this city failed to cater to people who protest their existence."

"Frank, that's not fair and you know it." Garret glared at his boss. "The mayor's commission has made some very serious charges about negligence in the department, and like it or not, you have to at least comment on it."

"Fine! Here's a comment: It's a load of bull," said Frank.

Garret just raised an eyebrow. "And you know this without reading the report how?"

"I don't need to see the report, I know whose word to trust over a pile of bureaucrats catering to the latest mob," insisted Frank, shoving the thick file aside.

Garret just picked it up and set it back in front of him. "Distrust it all you like, decry it in public, just read the damn thing so you know what you're talking about!"

Heaving a sigh, Frank fixed his Deputy Commissioner with an eye. "We've got three rapes, two murders, a half-dozen break-ins, and a terrorist threat on our plate, and you want me to waste time reading a highly official smear campaign?"

"It it'll help you combat said smear campaign, then yes," answered Garret. "You've gotta understand what these people are complaining about, what they perceive as negligence. You need to at least appear sensitive to their points of view to…"

"Well maybe I don't!" said Frank in a half-shout. "Maybe all I need to do is find someone who isn't quite as 'sensitive' to terrorist's views!"

Garret's face went stiff. There was a horrible moment of silence as Frank just sat there, breathing hard. Then Garret gave a little nod and made for the door.

"Stop." Frank said, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. "Stop. I'm… I'm sorry Garret. I didn't mean that. I'm not myself today."

Garret's face softened as he turned to face his boss. "Frank," he said, "You haven't been yourself for four months."

* * *

**A/N:** Hey, this story has picked up a few new watchers! Awesome. Hopefully that translates to more reviews. I still really like this story, but I had a bit of a conflict about how to deal with things. And of course, this is a pretty long chapter. The next couple should be shorter.

So. This is more or less the core of the story, showing Jamie trying to survive in Gotham, while his family deals with the larger political repercussions. I guess I didn't quite realize how important this part was to the story, initially this was going to be all we saw of life in Gotham before Batman returns and starts cracking heads. But then I figured out that this part is really the interesting part, so I decided to expand it. The next couple chapters are going to be a bit more... targeted than the one-shots we have here, but they're going to be rather similar-Jamie in Gotham, Reagans in NYC.

I decided to break my rule about steering away from comic references. I used some of them in this chapter, but mostly just to convey a lot of information in a short time. I also had fun visiting some other bit characters from the Nolan verse-namely Reese and Judge Foley. I think it's really cool that the corrupt Judge Foley's kid (or nephew, whatever) grew up to be the Deputy Commissioner. We'll see more, and both those characters are going to be important.

Enjoy!


	7. A Christmas Carol

**A Christmas Carol**

Even in the shelter of the dark warehouse, the bitter cold cut straight through Jamie's thin jacket, and he huddled with the others around oil drum. "Any chance we could start up the generator, Commissioner?"

"Sorry, Reagan," answered Gordon, rubbing his hands over the flame. "We've got little enough fuel as it is. Best to save it for the really cold days."

Jamie laughed and shook his head. "Not sure I want to find out what those are like."

"Not sure you're going to have much choice." Blake grinned at him over the flame. "Better hit up a department store for a better coat, if they're not all gone already. If you're lucky, maybe you can find a storekeeper who'll give you one for free."

"Really?" asked Jamie, arching a sarcastic eyebrow.

Gordon shrugged. "Heck, why not. It's Christmas, after all."

* * *

"…and suddenly, there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying, 'Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will towards men.'"

"Amen." Frank murmured.

The rest of the table looked questioningly at Frank and he smiled. "Sorry, dad"—this to Henry, at the head of table—"didn't mean to interrupt. Keep going."

Henry turned back to the leatherbound book. "So it was, when the angels had gone away from them into heaven, that the shepherds said to one another, "Let us now go to Bethlehem and see this thing that has come to pass, which the Lord has made known to us. And they came with haste and found Mary and Joseph, and the Babe lying in the manger." Henry closed the book.

"Thanks, dad." Frank said, smiling again.

Sean looked over the table at his grandfather in confusion. "I thought 'Amen' was what you say when you pray."

"It's what you say when you agree with something," answered Linda, reaching over to pat her son. "Your grandfather is wishing for peace on earth."

"Among other things," agreed Frank. "But yes, peace on earth would be nice. I'd even settle for peace in New York City, for a night."

Glancing up, Nikki asked: "Don't criminals take a break for Christmas?"

Danny gave one of his cynical smiles. "You'd be surprised."

"Any crime, whether on a holiday or not, is a tragedy." Frank shook his head. "And not even Christmas is crime-free. Not around the world… not in New York City."

"So… do you still have cops out on the street right now?" Sean asked.

Frank nodded. "I do indeed."

Sean's eyes grew wide. "On CHRISTMAS!?"

"There are nurses on duty at the hospital, too," added Linda. "A lot of them work through the holidays also."

"Has to be done by someone." Frank shrugged. "Just like someone had to plow the roads today, and keep the power going, and fly planes and drive buses and trains." He smiled at the expression on Sean's face. "Not everyone gets to spend the holidays with their family, Sean."

"Amen to that." Danny nodded. "Just heard from a couple buddies of mine over in Afghanistan. They ain't with their families. War doesn't stop for Christmas."

"In school, we learned that George Washington crossed the Delaware River and surprised the Russians on Christmas," announced Jack, Danny's youngest.

"Hessians, dear." Linda corrected, amidst general chuckling.

Sean looked slightly confused. "How do your friends celebrate Christmas, dad?"

"Well, it's not easy." Danny shrugged. "No snow, for starters."

"They don't have snow? How can you have Christmas without snow?" Jack looked at his father in alarm.

"They manage." Danny ruffled Jack's hair.

Jack did not appear to be eased by this. "Well, I'm going to pray for them anyway. And all the policemen and nurses and train-drivers and everyone else who can't be with their family today."

"Amen," chorused the Reagan family, all smiling.

"And Uncle Jamie."

The entire table fell silent at this, and Jack looked up at his father in some trepidation. "Is that okay? Can I pray for Uncle Jamie?"

Danny forced a smile and patted his son on the shoulder. "Yes, Jack. I'm sure you can."

* * *

"I know _exactly_ what they're doing right now," answered Jamie, cracking a smile. "Every Christmas, it's the same. Go to mass in the morning, come back, eat an enormous turkey dinner, then Granddad reads from Luke, we each say a prayer, and then it's into the family room to open gifts. After that, we sing songs."

"Every Christmas?" Blake raised an amused eyebrow.

Jamie shrugged. "Sometimes Dad gets called away on an emergency or Danny's working a case of some kind. I think two years back I was on tour during the morning and they waited until I clocked out, but that's the model."

"Let's hear more about this big turkey dinner," said Gordon, with a little wave.

Jamie paused and let out a breath. "Well… typically Granddad and Linda get it together. Granddad has this honey glaze he likes to pour over it before they bake it in the oven. They don't cut it up beforehand, though, they decorate it with parsley and cranberries and things before they put it on the table, and then Dad cuts it up with a big knife."

The commissioner's eyes were closed; his lined face had something of a dreamy expression. "Go on."

"Erin bakes a ham, generally. She's not a great cook, but she makes a mean ham." Jamie squinted in thought. "And there's usually some kind of special bread that Mom used to make. Linda usually boils up some corn for the boys, but they're the only ones that eat it, and then only because they have to."

"Heh." Blake smirked. "Sounds like Christmas at St. James. Caretakers always gave us carrots, but I never saw any of them eating one."

"Sara would do that for James and Barbara too." Gordon grunted, a fond smile twitching his lips. "Said they wouldn't get any ice cream otherwise."

"You guys had ice cream for Christmas?" Blake glanced at the commissioner askance. "Seriously?"

"What? The kids loved it."

"Ice cream's a summertime thing, chief." Jamie eyed his superior with a similar expression. "Usually in the wintertime most folks figure they've got enough ice already. What you need for Christmas is hot cocoa, wassail..."

"What the heck's wassail?"

"You're kidding, right?" But a glance at the others assured Jamie that they were not. "Traditional Christmas drink. Like the song: 'Wassail, wassail…?'" His voice died away in the face of the others' stares and he sighed. "Hot mulled cider. Dad usually spikes it with some rum or something, or at least he does for the adults. But no ice cream." Jamie grimaced. "Ice Cream on Christmas is just too much."

Shrugging, Gordon answered, "Not for James and my Babs. Dessert was their favorite part."

"Dessert is EVERYONE's favorite part." Jamie grinned. "Dad used to say that the difference between Thanksgiving and Christmas is that on Thanksgiving, people eat so much dinner they don't have room for dessert, and on Christmas, folks eat so much dessert they don't have room for dinner."

"Ha!" Blake snorted. "All you softies, talking about dessert… we were lucky if we got a brownie at St. James."

"C'mon, Detective, that's no comfort to us at all." Gordon elbowed Blake in the ribs. "Reagan, get back to this dinner. What do you guys have for dessert?"

* * *

"Yes! Buckeyes!" Nikki snagged a few off the plate as it passed her.

"Never understood you kids and your fascination with those," Henry grunted. "Now, this cherry pie…"

"Easy, gramps." Erin grabbed the tray from him. "Remember your cholesterol."

Henry grumbled. "I'm not even allowed to eat in peace anymore?"

"Naw, sis just wanted to make sure you left some for the rest of us." Danny winked across the table at Erin, who simply shook her head.

"Why I never…!" Henry started.

"Here it is!" Linda announced, coming into the dining room with a covered plate. "The Christmas pudding!"

"Ah!" Frank got up from his seat to make room as Linda laid the dish on the table. Picking off the cover, he exposed a steaming chocolate mound.

"Here's the sauce, dad," said Linda, handing him a small creamer. "Would you do the honors?"

The whole table fell silent as Frank reached out over the table, letting the fragrant liquid stream over the pudding. He lathered it back and forth, allowing it to trickle down the sides and collect on the plate below.

The last few drips trickled out of the creamer and the whole Reagan family clapped. "Bravo dad!" Erin crowed.

"Thank you." Frank smiled. "Linda, the pudding looks wonderful, as always."

"Why do we call it a pudding?" Jack wrinkled his nose. "It looks more like a cake."

"It's an ENGLISH pudding." Danny chided his son. "Your grandmum's recipe. It's not supposed to be like a jello."

Henry snorted. "I should say not." Standing up, he picked up the knife. "May I?"

"Be my guest," said Frank with a wave, sitting down.

Frank reached over the table and began to cut chunks out of the English pudding, using the knife to scoop the pieces (and any wayward crumbs) onto the proffered dishes.

"Hey…" Sean glanced around the table. "Where're the little Christmas tree cakes we always have?"

No one answered, but the adults exchanged a worried glance.

* * *

"I usually just bring a few boxes of those Hostess Christmas tree cakes." Jamie confided. "Never been exactly a cook or anything."

"What else is at this dinner?"

"Commish, enough already," groaned Blake. "It was encouraging at first, but now it's just making me hungry."

Jamie grinned. "That's about all we have for dinner anyways. After that we unwrap presents and spend the rest of the night throwing little wads of wrapping paper at each other. Well, I say we…" A shrug. "Usually starts with Nikki and the boys, then Danny gets ahold of one, and then…, well, it turns into a real free-for-all then."

Blake just shook his head. "We'd have never gotten away with that at St. James. You took your present from Santa, you ripped off the paper, then you gave the paper to the nun. End of story." A thoughtful look crossed his face. "Of course, most of the time you were too busy exulting over whatever hand-me-down toy you'd gotten to even really think of throwing paper around. And they let us have one MEAN snowball fight afterward."

"Sarah and I bought our own presents," grunted the commissioner. "Just sorta told the other—hey, you got me a new pipe for Christmas—or something like that. The kids, we'd wrap their presents and stow them under the tree—"

"OH man. St. James had the greatest tree," said Blake, staring off into space.

"—and say they couldn't open them till the big day." A smile flickered across Gordon's face. "Course, that usually meant they'd be dragging us out of bed at four or so to finally unwrap whatever they'd gotten."

"So, here's a question." Jamie said, gazing into the fire. "What's the greatest present you've ever gotten?"

This took the others a bit by surprise, and they fell silent. Jamie provided his own answer. "Myself, I've got to say, it was probably when my brother Joe got me a little silver sheriff's badge when I was eleven. Dad had given both him and Danny one when they were ten, but things were tight around the house when it was my turn and I didn't get one. Danny used to make fun of me so much…" Jamie shook his head. "But that next winter, Joe gave me one, and after that we were the three musketeers." He gave a short laugh. "You know, it didn't hit me until I was in college that that was probably Joe's badge, and he just never let on.

"Mine wasn't exactly a Christmas present," mused Blake. "But it WAS pretty awesome. It was when I was… oh, about eight or so. Back when I was blonde."

Jamie looked at his dark-haired friend disbelievingly. "YOU used to be BLONDE?"

"You must have been such a cute kid." Gordon murmured.

"Better believe it," smirked Blake proudly.

"Too bad about what happened to your hair. Tell you what, now you're just ugly as sin."

Jamie chuckled along with the commissioner; Blake just shook his head. "Ah, you two mugs are just jealous."

"Jealous of what?" answered Gordon. "I'm too old to be_ cute_ anyway, I'm just _mature_. And Reagan here still has his boyish golden locks."

"There's no hiding the truth." Jamie grinned. "So what was this great present, Blake?"

Still shaking his head, Blake replied: "A spectro-scope with night-vision capability and an infrared scanner."

This brought the others to a halt. "When'd St. James give THOSE out?" asked Gordon.

"Didn't say this was from St. James." Blake had a smug expression on his face. "This was from the Batman."

"Pull the other one." Jamie scoffed.

"I swear. It was just when he was starting out. I went out on the porch and he was hanging right there, on the side of the building. I mean, this was before the batsignal, he was practically a street rumor, but c'mon, how many guys in batsuits could there be?"

"Actually…"

"Back THEN, Commish." Blake cut Gordon off. "I know there were copycats later."

"So you go out on the porch and surprise the big Bat while he's sightseeing and he just… gives you a night scope?" asked Jamie, forehead wrinkling in skepticism.

"Gotta say, sounds a little thin." Gordon agreed. "Don't suppose you happened to hang on to that night scope, did you, Blake?"

Blake grimaced. "Bragged about it too much to the other kids. My old man heard about it and took it to sell for booze."

"Tough luck." Jamie said, sensing that Blake was done talking about his childhood. "What about you, Commish? Best present ever?"

James Gordon did not reply immediately. He rubbed his hands together over the fire, staring out somewhere into the darkness of the warehouse.

"Commish?"

Gordon shook his head. "It was maybe… four years ago. The kids had come for their Christmas visit. Sarah dropped them off and then left. I'd managed to pick up a tree, but I hadn't exactly had time to decorate it or anything. Presents were wrapped, though. I was proud of that." Heaving a sigh, he shrugged. "Guess Babs and James didn't particularly care about the tree anyway. James seemed to like his new coat well enough… didn't think as much of the new football, but he said thanks. Babs, though…" Again he shook his head. "It was the weirdest thing. She'd chat with me online all the time, you know, and she was always asking me about the Batman. So, along with the standard makeup kit you get girls, and a few books she'd been asking for, I thought I'd stick in an old batarang I picked up in the early years on the force."

Blake looked unimpressed. "A batarang? The way he threw those around, you could pick up one for twenty bucks off a corner store. Though I suppose you'd never know if it was a REAL one…"

"I know." Gordon chuckled. "It was probably the lamest present I could have gotten. But when Babs saw it sitting on top of her books, she screamed, jumped up, and hugged me. 'Daddy, you're the best ever,' she said."

There was a long silence. Neither of the other two cops dared to say anything to the commissioner.

Finally Gordon let out another sigh. "That." He said. "That was probably it."

* * *

"Well… that's it, I guess." Frank said, sparing a glance to the now-bare tree. Sean and Jack were tossing bits of paper around half-heartedly. "That went fast."

"Always does." Henry smiled.

Linda prodded the boys with her toe. "Say thank you to Grandpa, boys."

"Thanks, Grandpa." The boys chorused.

"And thanks for the new computer too, Grandpa." Nikki added, looking up from her new laptop's screen. "My old one was getting pretty slow."

Frank shrugged. "That one's sort of a… joint gift from me and your mother."

"Figured you spent enough time on the computer, any gift you got would have to have something to do with it," nodded Erin, smiling slightly. "And you've had that old one for a couple years now… it was time for a change. Expensive, though. Your other gifts won't be quite as dramatic, I can promise you that."

"That's just fine." Nikki smirked at her mother. "Thank you mom."

"You're welcome, sweetie."

"I'd like to say something while we're all here." Henry spoke up. The others all looked at him as he continued: "I'm glad we can get together and exchange gifts like this, but more than the gifts and the food, I'm thankful for this family." He made it a point to look at each one of them around the room. "Family's an important part of Christmas, and not everyone is so lucky as to be born into a family like this. Over the years…" Henry looked down, "…we've lost members of this family. To time, and to other forces."

There was a moment of silence. Jack started to pick up his nerf gun, but Linda stopped him. No one looked at it, but still the picture of Joseph Reagan on the mantelpiece seemed very large suddenly.

"Of those left to us, not even all could make it tonight." The family nodded quietly. "But the bonds of family are more than mortal, and at times like these…" Henry shook his head, "I feel, somehow, that they are all still here with us."

* * *

"Bet you're sorry you came to Gotham now, huh, Reagan?" Gordon chuckled, breaking the silence. "Otherwise you'd be with your family eating that big turkey."

"Eh." Jamie shrugged. "Was probably getting a little flabby anyway. Say, where's Trotwood?"

"He's got a brother in midtown." Blake answered. "Guess he's celebrating the holidays there with him."

"You're kidding." Jamie stared. "I mean, I know Foley's with his wife and kids and Nagel had to meet with his war buddies, but… Trotwood?"

Grinning, Blake nodded. "Seems crazy, right? You should meet his brother sometime. Guy cannot stop talking to save his life."

"Not exactly a good trait, right now." Gordon grumbled. "Trotwood better be careful."

Something had been nagging at the back of Jamie's mind and now it pushed to the front. "Sir," he said carefully. "You said you had a family. They in Gotham?"

"Not anymore, thank God." Gordon answered, looking suddenly old. "God knows I'd love to be with them right now but…" He shook his head. "…not here. Not here. I'd only make things more dangerous for them."

"I hear that." Blake nodded grimly.

Jamie glanced at him curiously. "You've got family out of town?"

He regretted the question almost instantly, but Blake simply shook his head. "My folks disappeared in the Narrow's Riot. St. James was my home growing up. I dropped by this morning and played Santa for the kids, but…" He shook his head. "…probably best if I stay away from there right now."

He looked a little sad, which made Gordon's sudden snort all the more jarring. "Sorry." He said, in response to the other's glares. "But seriously, Blake. You as Santa?"

Blake shrugged, but there was a grin tugging at the corners of this mouth. "Everyone's a little skinnier now, Commish."

"Heh." The commissioner smiled. "I suppose we are, at that. All right." He stuck his hands in his pockets and moved away from the oil drum. "Enough with the reminiscing. It's late enough."

Obediently, the others left the oil drum and bent to pick up several large sacks on the floor of the warehouse. "You sure you want to come with us, sir?" Blake asked, looking genuinely worried. "Reagan and I can swing it alone."

"And I'm too recognizable to be anything more than a danger, I know." Gordon let a grim smile cross his face. "But they're my men, and I'll be damned if I'm going to not at least be in position for backup if things go south."

Blake shrugged as he hoisted the sack onto his shoulders. "Very well, sir."

"Right then." Gordon said, glancing to Jamie. "Let's get this show moving."

* * *

Frank turned as Danny entered the kitchen, dinner plates in hand. "Nice of you to help with the clean-up, Danny."

"Linda's keeping the kids corralled with their Nerf guns, Erin's finding the songbooks, helping to clear the table seemed like the only job left." Danny shrugged. Sticking the plates in the dishwasher, he turned to face his father. "What is it, pop?"

Blinking, Frank looked at his son in apparent confusion. "What is what?"

"You only wait around in the kitchen when you want to have a talk with one of us." Danny answered. "And it's not hard to figure out who that is right now."

Frank gave a little nod. "You're right." He turned to pour himself a cup of coffee. "But if you already know I want to talk to you, that must mean you already know about what."

"The guy was a scumbag and a freeloader. I did my job." Danny answered.

"He IS a New York resident and a political activist," replied Frank, turning to face Danny, eyes hard. "And you had no reason to suspect him of any foul play."

Danny rolled his eyes and turned away. "He's guilty, isn't he?"

"Yes, but you didn't know that when you put him in the hospital." Frank returned. "An unarmed citizen, whom you had no grounds for suspecting…"

"What, you mean aside from the fact that the guy's a dyed-in-the-wool terrorist?" Danny spread his arms wide. "I get enough of this bleeding heart stuff from Erin, Sarge… even Jackie these days. I don't need to get it from you too."

"Well maybe eventually some of it will stick!" Frank answered. "I've been hearing complaints about you for months now, Danny, but this…" He shook his head. "…Danny, you need to realize this isn't Iraq."

"No." Danny agreed. "In Iraq, I'd be given a medal."

"No, you damn well wouldn't." Frank shot back. "And here you'll be lucky to keep your job."

* * *

"This is crazy." Jamie breathed, looking at the towering structure, untouched amidst the crumbling buildings surrounding it. "We'll be lucky to get out of there with our lives."

"Get out?" questioned Blake grimly, scanning the area with his binoculars. "We'll be lucky to get IN with our lives."

Jamie threw his partner a dark look. "Thanks man. I feel so much better."

"Anytime." Blake lowered the binoculars.

"Remind me why we're not just doing this at the tunnel mouth?"

"Because we think Bane's men are starting to watch that location."

Jamie snorted. "And they're not watching THIS location?" He asked, indicating the tanks milling about the building's base and the dark forms littered about the ground.

"Not as intently." Blake insisted. "A lot of Bane's own men are Gotham-born. They'll die if he asks them, sure, but they're still going to want Christmas off."

"And Bane'll just give it to them?"

"Well, no." Blake admitted. "Not all, at least. But the mob's not out tonight, which means his enforcers are spread a little thinner than usual, which means the guys here probably aren't as fanatical as usual."

"Probably?" Jamie arched an eyebrow.

Blake shrugged as he shoved the binoculars in his pocket. "It's all we've got. C'mon."

They crept across the street, little more than two dark specks in the swirling snow. The tanks and guards did not seem to pay them much heed as they entered the broken-down building next door. Up the stairs they sped, the harsh clang of ringing metal reverberating in the barren stairwell. After a long, tiring climb, they exited the stairs to a badly smashed floor, for all intents and purposes, the rooftop of the building.

Jamie looked doubtfully out the broken window. The alleyway looked dangerously far below, and the gap between the buildings was MUCH too large for his liking. "You're still sure this idea isn't crazy?"

"Never said that," snorted Blake, digging out a strange weapon from his bag. "But it's the best chance we have."

"Lovely." Jamie snorted again.

Blake leaned out the window, aimed the gun upward, and shot. A hookline went hissing away into the sky, (apparently) catching onto something much higher up on the building.

"There," said Blake, giving the rope a few sharp tugs. "Now, just need to hurry, before the guards notice the line hanging off the side here." And without another word, he grabbed hold of the line and pushed himself out into empty space.

"Crazy." Jamie shook his head, watching his partner swing across, letting go at just the right moment to go sailing through the broken windows opposite. "Just crazy!" he repeated as the line came back. "Crazy!" He announced, to the world at large, as his gloved hands caught hold of the dreadfully slippery line. "Craaaazzzzzyyyyyyyy!" He half-hissed, half-screamed, as he swung out into open air, feet scrambling for a foothold.

The wind between the two buildings was horrifyingly strong after the stillness of the stairwell. It was ice cold and cut to the bone. With a shock, Jamie realized he was already across and his grip lessened… but he was sailing back now and it was too late, too late to let go so he tightened the grip and again the cold and there was a building but it was the wrong one, and he was coming back to the first one now but he was swinging more slowly now and oh it wasn't going to make it….

Strong arms reached out and seized hold of him. He let go almost by reflex and practically tumbled into Blake, finally crashing down to (what had been) an office floor.

Blake picked himself up with a light laugh. "Well, guess they don't teach you that in New York, huh?"

"Crazy! Crazy! Crazy!" Jamie panted.

Slapping him on the back, Blake hauled him to his feet. "Hey, it's over, okay? Just try not to think about how that's our only way back. Come on, now, we need to hurry."

They made their way down stairwells, cutting across the floor in places where it was blocked, slinking from pillar to pillar in places where guards presented themselves. Blake led the way, but Jamie suspected that the other officer didn't have too much better of an idea of the floor plan than he did. Reese had helped, but the accountant's memory only went so far.

Time after time, Jamie caught sight of the omnipresent 'W' logo… the sign of the once-mighty Wayne Enterprises. Once, this building had housed some of the finest minds in the world and provided a living for hundreds of families.

Now, it was merely a ruin.

They'd gone quite a ways down (in fact, Jamie was pretty sure they'd gone past ground level) and were puzzling over a blocked entryway when they heard it. A faint sound, but still recognizable.

"_Si-i-lent Night. Ho-o-ly Night._

_All is calm, all is bright…"_

"Is that…" Blake hesitated. "…singing?"

"_Round yon vir—ir-gin mo-ther and child_

_Ho-ly in-fant so ten-der and mild…"_

Following the sound, they hurried across several rooms and found a small crevice, half-hidden behind some collapsed bookshelves. It looked like a small elevator shaft, but the elevator had jammed halfway, leaving an acceptable drop for the two officers to lower themselves. Once on the roof of the elevator car, they had a clear view of the room beneath.

A surreal scene met their eyes. Below them was a vast warehouse, presumably once used for storing motor vehicles and other heavy duty equipment. In the center, hundreds of guards crowded around a gaping hole, automatic weapons hanging almost casually in their arms.

And in that hole, faint blue uniforms could be glimpsed in the gloom, as countless voices sang out:

"_Sleep in hea-ven-ly pea—eace!_

_Slee-eep in hea-ven-ly peace…"_

* * *

"_Si-i-lent Night! Ho-o-ly Night!_

_Shep-herds quake at the sight!_

Singing was an old tradition in the Reagan home. In the old days, they had gone around from house to house in the neighborhood, often being joined by various friends as they made their rounds. For various reasons, this had fallen by the wayside in recent years, but they still had the songbooks, and they still took the time to sing.

"_Glo-riees stre-eam from hea-ven a-far._

_Hea-venly ho-o-sts sing a-le-luia…"_

They sang with a skill born of long tradition. Frank's deep bass matched his son's even baritone, and Linda made a surprisingly good alto to Nikki's soprano (nearly drowning out Erin's own somewhat less-impressive soprano). Henry's voice had grown rough, but still he pounded away on the old keyboard. Sean and Jack were not talented singers, but they knew the tunes by heart, and what Jack lacked in tone, he made up for in enthusiasm.

"_Christ the Sav-ior is bo—orn!"_

But of course, there was a gap. Jamie's tenor was missing, and difference could be sensed in the melody.

"_Chri-i-ist the Sav-ior is born…"_

* * *

"_Si-i-lent Night! Ho-o-ly Night!"_

A jab brought Jamie back to his senses. Blake was pointing at a nearby catwalk. It stretched across the ceiling, in near darkness, far over the center of the pit. He nodded at Blake to show he understood.

"_Son of God! Love's pure light!"_

As the two of them crept out onto the catwalk, Jamie noticed with surprise that the police officers were not the only ones singing. Some, if not all, of the guards could be seen moving their lips, if not outright singing.

"_Ray-dee-ant bee-eams from thy ho-ly face…"_

They reached the center of the catwalk. Blake slung the bag off his shoulder, Jamie following suit.

"_With the dawn of ree-dee-eem-ing grace…"_

Blake reached out with the bag and suddenly hesitated. Looking down, Jamie understood why. The pit was packed with police officers. It was practically impossible, at this height, to drop a sack and be sure it would not land on one of them. And at this height, that could be dangerous.

"_Jee-sus Lord at thy bir-rth!"_

An idea seized Jamie. Quickly he signed to Blake.

"_Jee-ee-sus Lord, at thy birth!"_

As one, the two officers unzipped their bags. The noise made a few heads among the guards glance up, but before any of them could even raise a weapon, Blake and Jamie upended their bags, shaking the contents out over the warehouse.

Thousands of letters spilled out of the bag, billowing out into the air like paper butterflies, or great white snowflakes. They tumbled down through the air, spiraling, soaring, drifting on the uncertain wind down to the pit—letters, to the entrapped officers from their families.

And as harsh cries echoed across the warehouse, and bullets ricocheted blindly against the ceiling, and Jamie and Blake dashed back across the catwalk to the elevator, Jamie caught sight of one of the guards, looking up at them.

He was smiling.

* * *

**A/N:** You know, I chose that title before I wrote this chapter, and I only just now realized how incredibly apt it is. Merry Christmas, everyone.


	8. Our Mutual Friend

**Our Mutual Friend**

* * *

"Reminds me of Kabul," said Nagel suddenly.

Jamie looked up, his concentration broken. "What?"

"Kabul. This place. Reminds me of."

"What the heck's Kabul?"

That earned him a scornful look from Nagel. "Biggest city in Afghanistan, kiddo. Over a million people."

"Ah." Jamie turned back to surveying the broken street and the shattered buildings. "That's where you were stationed?"

"For six months or so. Part of the occupation force." Nagel shifted the shotgun in his hands and gazed around the street. "Guess it's not quite the same."

"Suppose the buildings are taller." Jamie deadpanned.

Nagel shrugged. "Not as much as you'd think. What I meant was how it feels like we're on the other end of the barrel now. Like insurgents. Y'know?"

Jamie looked back at him. "Bane isn't exactly an occupation force." He answered. "Insurgents are forces working to disrupt an established order. That's not us. We're working to re-establish order in a very… insurgent-ish situation."

"I keep forgetting you're the lawyer kid." Nagel sneered.

"Just sayin'" shrugged Jamie. "We're underdogs, but we're not terrorists."

"If it makes you feel better, sure." Uttering a short bark of laughter, Nagel noted: "You know what's really funny? People like to always act like the towelheads are these uncivilized barbarians and we'd never react like they did, but when it gets down to it? We're exactly the same."

"How you figure?" Jamie frowned.

"Didn't I just say this place reminded me of Kabul?" Nagel glanced at him. "Not just the whole… urban warfare thing. First couple weeks after we took the place, it was utter chaos. Not just from all the explosions that'd rocked the place… first thing people did once they realized the cops were running was start to loot every place they could find. Shops, houses, art museums, you name it, they hit it."

After a moment of thought, Jamie nodded. "When that one hurricane hit New Orleans and people started grabbing things left and right, my granddad said it reminded him of the New York blackout."

Nagel laughed again. "Given the chance, everyone turns robber, huh kid?"

"Oh c'mon." Jamie threw a look in his direction. "It's not like everyone in this city is on Bane's side. I'll bet not even most of them."

"Then where the heck are they?"

"Inside their homes, probably, hoping that if they stay quiet and keep their heads down it'll all blow over," responded Jamie, still watching the road. "They didn't sign up for this. We did."

Nagel snorted. "No, YOU did. I never signed up for this shit, I just know a war when I see one. Ever been in a war, kid?"

"Not me." Jamie shook his head. "My older brother Danny was a Marine in Iraq. Dad was in Vietnam and Granddad in Korea but me… nope."

There was a small creak as Nagel turned to look at him. "Thought you looked awful pale when we met." He noted. "Never killed a man before, had you?"

Jamie gave him a sharp glance, looked away, fiddled with the gun in his hands for a few moments, and finally sighed. "Once." He answered. "Guy pulled a gun on some students. This, though..." He shrugged

"Bit different, I suppose." Nagel answered. Then, after a moment: "It bother you?"

"Not… as much as I thought it would." Jamie frowned, staring at the street. "I mean, even the first time… everyone kept asking if I was okay, and I didn't really… I just… nothing." A light huff of disbelief escaped him. "And this time, it's just not there at all. Like, I didn't enjoy it, but… I'm not torn up about it either."

"Don't sweat it." Nagel grunted. "If you were still a cop, I'd worry. Cops are supposed to be torn up about shooting people, it's not something they're supposed to do a lot."

Jamie cocked an eyebrow at the man. "And I'm not a cop anymore?"

"Didn't you hear me?" returned the man. "I know a war when I see one, and this is a war. Cops are what you call peacekeepers. You and the rest of Gordon's boys…" Nagel shook his head. "You're soldiers, now."

Jamie was about to reply when a lot rumble from across the street caught his attention. "There." He said, pointing as three military-type trucks roared past them on the street.

"Got the time." Nagel noted, checking his watch. "C'mon. Time we reported in to Gordon."

* * *

"Reminds me of the 60's." Renzulli said, watching the protestors.

Cruz looked over at him. "Exactly how old are you, sarge?"

"None of your damn business, that's what." The other cop grunted. "Anyway, I was just a young tyke then. I just saw the thing from the window. Don't remember much about it, just… a whole bunch of signs. And my dad, whining about how the environmentalists were blockading his job."

"Not one for new tricks, are they?" Cruz asked, staring up at the towering bank above.

Renzulli shrugged in answer. "Eh, don't see any point in messing with the classics. This place made a lot of people mad, what with all the layoffs and foreclosures and such."

"So what are we doing here?"

"Nothing, so long as they just stand there," answered Renzulli. "They're not actually blocking entry to the place. But if they start really causing problems, then we move in."

A snort broke loose from Cruz. "Right, cause this isn't a powderkeg at all."

A car pulled out to the curb, and a despicably clean-shaven man got out. As the car drove away, he made for the building, ignoring the screaming protestors. A few pop cans sailed past, and some wadded-up balls of paper brushed against his jacket, but nonetheless he continued on and made his way through the swinging doors.

"C'mon, sarge, this thing is a riot waiting to happen." Cruz urged his superior. "We should nip it in the bud before it gets nasty."

Renzulli sighed and looked around the square. He could count at least four police cars, each with officers standing right alongside, waiting for action. It was a safe bet that there was already a riot squad in a van around the corner.

"Tell you what." He said, reaching for the radio. "I'll report it in, wait for word on high to come down."

* * *

"…and they passed us here at 10:15." Jamie pointed at the map. "Means they must have been making an even 45 on the road between."

Gordon grunted as he studied the map. "Completely different route. They're switching the truck schedules on a weekly basis now."

"I suppose if I was trying to hide a fusion nuclear device, I'd want it well hidden too." Jamie shrugged.

"True enough." Gordon leaned back and rubbed his eyes. "Alright, well, not much else to do except continue to keep an eye on them, see if we can pick up on some sort of pattern to their routes."

"Watch for triggerman too?" Trotwood, as skinny and as dry as ever, was hunched over the fire they had in the center of the room, his coat draping over his shoulders.

"I told you, there is no triggerman." Gordon snorted. "For all his ballyhoo about 'freedom' and 'equality,' Bane is a terrorist. There's no way he'd let any ordinary person control the fate of the city."

"Where are we supposed to start, anyway?" grunted Flass, slumped on a crate. "Walk around to every person on the street, say, 'hey, I'm a policeman, you wouldn't happen to be holding the key to our destruction, would you?'"

The others just looked at him. Flass had joined them a few weeks ago, considerably thinner. He'd given them a line about how 'once a cop, always a cop,' but Blake privately told Jamie that it more likely had to do with seeking out a support group—gangs were starting to form across Gotham, and if you couldn't find a group of people to watch out for you, you weren't likely to last long. Gordon hadn't liked the idea of taking on his ex-partner, but with manpower being what it was, they didn't really have the luxury of turning folks away.

"I'm right." Flass insisted, in response to their looks. "If the Triggerman's so 'ordinary,' it'd be like looking for a needle in a haystack."

"We should still keep a lookout." That was Foley, just across the table from Gordon. "If we somehow manage to get ahold of the bomb and it turns out we're wrong, we could have a whole lot of blood on our hands."

"Be dead." Trotwood pointed out. "Moot point."

"It's still kinda something we wanna avoid," said Blake, leaning up against the wall.

"Allright, allright." Gordon held up his hands. "Look. The bomb and the triggerman are bound to be fully protected, so attacking either is out of the question until we get some more hardware. Foley, I want you and Trotwood to cast around, see if you can find anything more usable. Reagan, what about your job?"

"Sir." Jamie unconsciously stiffened to attention. "Wayne building was mostly a wreck, none of the computers were powered up or anything. Papers all over the place too. Didn't have time to look through them all, but there weren't any obvious signs of where everyone went."

"The addresses are a dead end too." That was Nagel. "Any house with more than two bedrooms has been torn to shreds at this point. Looking up where those bigwigs used to live is a waste of time. In fact, looking for them is a waste of time to begin with, why are we doing this again?"

"I told you!" Reese was considerably skinnier than when Jamie had met him, and was now dressed in a flannel shirt and jeans, but he still had that slightly nervous air. "Mr. Wayne spent four years developing a fusion reactor, very much like the one that they're using now to power their bomb. If we want to find a way to defuse that thing, our best bet is to find the chief engineer on that project."

"Lucius Fox." Gordon nodded thoughtfully, still looking at the map.

"Wayne Enterprises was practically the first place they hit, and it's still crawling with guards." Flass scoffed.

"Plus, Blake and I barely got out of that place Christmas." Jamie agreed. "Odds are ten to one Mr. Fox already had a fifteen-second trial and gotten tossed out into the river."

"No way." Reese shook his head. "You don't know Mr. Fox like I do. He's very… resourceful. He and Mr. Wayne both."

"Oh brother." Nagel rolled his eyes. "Here we go again."

"Look, I get trying to find Fox, but Wayne?" Foley arched his eyebrows. "The man's a certifiable nut. Frittered away all his money on parties and booze. Guy knows nothing about bombs or anything that could be remotely useful."

"You never know," shrugged Blake. "He could be handy."

"Grateful, definitely." A slow smile spread across Flass's face.

"In case you're forgetting, Wayne went bankrupt. And that was BEFORE the crash." Nagel sneered. "His gratitude isn't worth a cold glass of whiskey."

"In any case, those scum out there would be wanting to rip him to shreds." Jamie pointed out. "That means that if possible, we ought to find Mr. Wayne and put him in the safe house with the others."

"Can't argue with that." Gordon stroked his swiftly-growing beard. "Okay, continue to cast around, talk to any street contacts you still have. Reese, if you know of any places where Fox and Wayne might go to hide, now would be a good time to mention them. Blake, Reagan: Check any places he mentions and see if you can get a hold of one of those riff-raff that's always hanging around that sham courthouse of theirs. Maybe they'd remember if either one got tossed into the river."

* * *

"She passed me in the hallway at like 10 or so." Brittany shrugged. "But aside from that, I haven't seen her."

Nikki chewed her lip. "Well, we can't wait for her any longer. We'll just have to start without Crystal." There were nods of agreement around the table, and Nikki wasn't sure if there weren't a few looks of relief too. Crystal had made a surprise bid for the student council last month, and even more surprisingly, had won a seat. Clearly, SOME people liked the girl, even if Nikki (and, she suspected, most of the student council) couldn't stand her.

But then, she supposed that was part of the point. Challenge the establishment.

"Right." She said. "So, the bake sale is coming up in two weeks. Jason, how are we doing on preparations?"

"I have twenty-five different families pledging various items," answered Jason, consulting his notebook, "and three different businesses offering their support. Also, we have the necessary rooms reserved and Student Services have granted us the required tables and chairs."

"Good. Brittany, what about publicity?"

"Well, I'm sure we've all seen the signs around the school." There were some chuckles around the table. "And we're starting to run low on sidewalk chalk. I think we've got the word out pretty well, but we still have people out canvassing the neighborhood."

"Good." Nikki nodded. "Make sure they tell people that 50% of the proceeds will be going to the Future of Gotham fund. What else... yes, Randal?"

Randal looked somewhat troubled. "The Levelers are protesting our support of the FoG organization." He said. "They're saying that the charity isn't currently serving any purpose, and is more a speculation than any sort of charity. A few of them hinted they think the FoG is actually a scam of some kind."

Nikki frowned. "I've looked into the FoG organization. They're quite reputable."

"It's an organization raising money for the eventual restoration of Gotham, once the siege ends." Jason pointed out.

"The Levelers say that no one knows when, if ever, that will occur, and that storing up money for it is simply a cover to accumulate tax-free capital."

"Of all the...!" Brittany half-rose, but Nikki waved her to a seat.

"It's a legitimate concern." She said wearily. "My Uncle Danny said something similar."

The others blinked at her. "You never mentioned that before."

"My uncle Danny thinks everyone is a criminal." She shrugged. "Randal, what do the Levelers want?"

"They say they want us to sponsor the Gotham Gifts initiative. It provides care packages to be sent in with the food relief that the government is providing."

"Come on." Brittany scoffed. "Everyone knows that stuff is just used to bolster Bane's power."

"Half those 'care packages' probably have assault weapons inside!" Jason agreed.

"I doubt the government is quite THAT careless," answered Nikki. "Regardless, 'Gotham Gifts' has made some... questionable comments about No Man's Land." She considered for a moment. "What if we decided to give 50% of the proceeds to Fallen Fathers?" She rolled her eyes at the blank looks. "They provide financial assistance to family members of the trapped police officers."

"Jeez, Nikki, do you know EVERY charity?"

Nikki just grinned.

"It won't please the Levelers." Randal warned. "They said if we didn't fund 'Gifts,' they'd picket the event."

"So let them." Nikki shrugged. "It might bring in some more business." She looked around the circle. "Now, what else is on the agenda?"

* * *

"You know I don't go near that place." The elderly man in the doorway frowned.

"No, but people talk to you, Norman." Blake pressed. "Lucius Fox is a pretty big name, he's been the face of Wayne Enterprises for years. His death would've caused quite a stir."

The minister sighed, then looked up and down the street. "I haven't heard anything." He said quietly. "Truth to tell, the streets are a little divided on Fox. Most of the men who talk to me are okay with him… he's been a real boon to the economy in Gotham."

"Like a Steve Jobs to the community." Blake nodded. "But…"

"But not everyone on the streets much cares anymore." Norman winced. "Things are getting so that they drag people to the courthouse just for fun. Have you heard of Lonnie Machan?"

"The boy genius?" Jamie frowned. "Anarchist, sorta-kinda-but-totally-not leading the east side?"  
"He's not doing anything anymore." Norman swallowed. "Crane sentenced him to exile last week. A couple of his followers too."

"What?" Jamie and Blake exchanged disbelieving glances. "But he was just a kid!"

Norman shook his head. "It's not the first time. Families get sent out onto the ice all the time. Children paying for their father's crimes…"

"Why?" Jamie sputtered.

Norman shrugged. "They were bored. People get colder, they get hungrier, they want something to do."

"Okay, look," said Blake, shaking his head. "Just... the guys that are okay with Fox. They say anything about where he might be?"

The elderly minister chewed his lip a moment. "Everyone's pretty definite that Bane grabbed the whole Gotham board on Day Zero." He answered. "But what happened after that... some say that he let them all loose to be dealt with by the people. Some say he killed half the board and kept the other half in a compound somewhere. But I haven't heard anyone say Fox was killed."

"What about Bruce Wayne?" Blake pressed.

"Wayne?" Norman blinked. "Not a word. NOBODY likes that rich party-boy—the mob's been tearing down anything marked with a 'W'—but they haven't found him. Bane's lot haven't been after him at all, from what I hear."

"Look," Jamie interrupted, shaking his head. "Is there anyone you can think who MIGHT know—and who might be willing to talk to us?"

"A few." Norman nodded. "But if the rumors are right and Bane's got a hold of him, you might want someone pretty far up the food chain. There's a lady I've heard about—frequents the Narrows. Pretty far in with Bane, but not really one of his crowd. She's helped out some folks from time to time."

"You got a name?" Blake asked.

"Selena Kyle."

* * *

"Name?" Linda asked, glancing over the chart.

"Marshal. Marshal Eriksen." The suit-clad man sitting on the bed winced and pressed the ice pack to his head. "I was just going into work..."

"Says here you suffered a blow to the head," continued Linda, squinting at the paper. "How'd that happen?"

"Was trying to get through the protest line to get to the Bank—it's where I work. One of the signs waved the wrong way and..." He hissed.

Gently, Linda pulled away the ice pack to examine the bruise beneath. "Intentional?" She asked.

The man shrugged. "I don't know... the cops seemed to think so, they hauled the protestor off and cuffed him. But signs were waving all over the place, and people were throwing stuff..."

"You hit him back?" Linda tilted her head to look at the patient. He was... very tall.

"What? No!" The man blinked and pulled away from before wincing and subsiding. "I mean, I was so surprised I didn't even think about it... the cops were on top of him before I'd even gotten up from the ground."

"Good." Linda let go of the icepack and picked up a small flashlight, shining it into each of her patient's eyes. "That's a very dangerous situation downtown... it you'd hit him back it could have started a street-wide brawl. My husband talks about that stuff all the time."

The man didn't quite seem to hear. "You know, if this had just been a few weeks ago I probably would be out there with them, but I have a job now at GNB and I have a wife to take care of..."

"I hear you there." Linda nodded, putting the flashlight away and picking up the clipboard to jot down some notations. "Try taking care of two kids on a nurse's payroll."

"Doesn't your husband help out at all?

Linda stopped, started to reply, then smiled. "Reach out with your hand and touch the tip of your nose, please." The man blinked but did so without hesitation. Linda nodded. "Well, it doesn't look like there's been much damage, but it might be just as well to take a quick MRI to make sure."

"Could we skip that bit? I still need to get to work..." The man winced.

"Call in sick." Linda shook her head. "The MRI is protocol, and you're not going anywhere with a head banged up like that." Picking up the clipboard, she made for the door. "Just hang on a second and I'll get you the forms."

As Linda hurried down the hallway and to the desk, Veronica, her boss, grabbed her arm. "Hey." She said. "I need you to stay late tonight."

Linda groaned. "C'mon, Veronica, can't you let me off this once? I've been doing overtime these past couple days already; I told the kids I'd pick them up from school!"

Veronica shook her head sympathetically. "Sorry, Reagan. I would, but word's come down from on high... they want all hands on deck. That situation at the bank is just getting started."

"They don't think..." Linda caught the look in her superior's eye. "That bad, huh?"

A shrug of the shoulders was her response. "Who knows. If nothing's happened by six, I'll send you home and you can have all of tomorrow off. But if they start off a riot there..." She left the sentence unfinished.

Linda let out a weary sigh. "Alright. I'll give my dad a call, have him pick up the kids."

* * *

"Why do I have to do it?" Jamie just barely kept the whine out of his voice.

Flass, slumped against the collapsed wall, gave a snort. "Cause you're a pretty kid. Trust me, I heard of this girl. She goes for the pretty kids."

"And she knows me from when I arrested her." Blake added, peering over the crushed stone at the burly men crowded around the fire.

"Hey, I almost arrested her."

Blake's mouth twitched. "You followed her into a room and got punched in the face. I doubt she remembers you."

"Thanks." Jamie deadpanned, glaring at the other. Sighing, he stood up. "Fine. But you owe me for this."

"I hear violins. Get moving."

With one last look, Jamie lurched around the corner and into full view of the crowd. "Hey... hey there!" He called, adding in a slight limp for effect. "Hey, you guys! Can you help a brother out?"

The largest man at the fire spared him a glance. "Get lost, punk."

"Naw, man, I need help! I need help bad!" Jamie didn't bother trying an accent, it'd sound too corny and this had to seem real. "My little sister, she... she's got this cough, y'know? And she's getting all hungry, and..."

"Hey. The man TOLD you to get lost." Another called.

"I would, but my sister says she's so hungry it hurts, and I've looked everywhere I could think of and there's nothing I could find, and I just wondered if you guys might..."

"We ain't got TIME for whiny bitches." The leader sneered at him, finally turning around. "And you're running on the end of what nerves I got."

The guy really was gigantic. And none of the five or six thugs flanking him was exactly small either. Jamie's gulp was only partly feigned. "Look, if there's anything I could do for you guys, I'd be happy to..."

"We don't need no favors from pussies like you." But the leader seemed to consider. "Cept maybe some entertainment. You think you could provide some entertainment?"

Part of Jamie abstractly noted that actually, the point was NOT to entertain the thugs, just goad them into a fight, but another part of him leapt at the chance. "Wh-wh-what would I have to do?" He asked.

A grin split the gigantic man's face. "Try not to break too easily." He answered, cracking his knuckles.

Jamie instinctively took a step back. He hoped Flass was right about this lady's rounds. He hoped Blake was right about how many people she could handle. He REALLY hoped that if either one was wrong, that they would jump out to help him.

They didn't.

"Oh boys," sang out a voice from the end of the lane. Jamie and the encroaching thugs turned to face a woman clad completely in leather. "Mugsy, why're you picking on the poor lost boy? It's not his fault he's stupid enough to blunder into the wrong neighborhood."

Mugsy looked curiously wary, but the presence of his fellows seemed to bolster him. "Hey, c'mon, Selena, this ain't got nothing to do with you."

Selena Kyle continued to walk straight forward. "Suppose I want it to."

"That'd be real unfriendly, butting into me and the boys' entertainment." Mugsy growled. "Only so much a man can take, ya realize."

"Well this 'man' better learn to take it." The woman stepped right up to him and stared into his face defiantly. Mugsy was a good three inches taller than her, but that didn't seem to faze her in the least. "I've got a soft spot for ailing sisters. Let him go."

Mugsy scoffed. "Hell with that," and swung.

Selena ducked it, grappled the man's arm, and used his momentum to pull him head over heels, crashing to the pavement.

Jamie was already moving. The instant Mugsy had swung he'd whipped out the nightstick hidden in his coat, striking the nearest thug with a swift blow to the head. The man's partner let out an oath and started to pull something from his coat, but Jamie knocked away the man's gun with a sweeping arc and lashed the nightstick back and forth across his face.

Six months ago, simply the sight of an attack like this would have revolted Jamie. It was unnecessary force, cruel and unusual punishment, police brutality at its worse.

Now it was simply day-to-day life.

The man toppled to the ground with a groan and Jamie whipped around to face the other four thug, only to see the last one keel over and collapse on the pavement. Selena Kyle loomed over the body and smirked. "Mind your manners next time, boys."

"Uh..." Jamie blinked in disbelief. "...thanks."

Selena glanced over at him, as if just remembering he was there. "You're welcome, kid. Just try not to..." She caught sight of the nightstick in his hand and groaned. "...Oh no. Don't tell me..."

"Sorry, Miss Kyle. Only way we could think of to attract your attention." Blake pointed out, as he and Flass came scrambling over the rock pile.

The woman sighed, placing one hand on her hip. "Honestly, if you're looking to get at Bane, then you're... wait a minute..." She squinted at Jamie. "Don't I know you? I think I punched you in a restroom, once. And you..." her gaze swiveled onto the others. "Detective... Blake, isn't it?" Her stance turned a trace more hostile. "You arrested me."

"My name's Flass, in case you were wondering," offered Flass, leering at her. She just sent him a look.

Blake winced visibly. "I offered you protection."

"Right. And looking at the situation now, that would have worked out sooooo well." Selena rolled her eyes, gesturing at the collapsed city. "No, you blocked me at the airport and trapped me in this shithole. If it wasn't for you I'd be out in the free world, sleeping somewhere warm, eating hot food, and happily snatching diamond necklaces off socialites."

"So?" shrugged Blake. "These days you can sleep in a penthouse and grab up diamonds from the street. Seems like things have worked out pretty well for you."

"YOU locked me in jail. Bane sprung me out." She growled at him. "So tell me why exactly I should help you and betray him?"

"Who's asking you to betray him?" asked Blake, raising his eyebrows innocently. "We were just wondering if you'd seen someone we're looking for."

"And who might that be?" The watchfulness did not leave her expression.

"Lucius Fox."

Her face became even more guarded, if that were possible. "Oh. Yeah, I might know where he is." She tilted her head. "But what's in it for me?"

Blake nodded his head at Flass, who pulled a bag from his coat and tossed it forward. Selena, eying them suspiciously, knelt and nosed around in the sack. After a few moments she looked up. "Seriously?" She snorted, holding up a ring and a few necklaces.

"You were just saying how much you liked diamonds." Blake pointed out.

"In the real world, yeah, where they can get you food and shelter. These aren't much better than glittery paperweights right now." Selena tossed the jewelry contemptuously to the ground. "Besides, that ring is as shoddy a fake as any I've seen."

"Better not let Mrs. Foley know that." Flass chuckled.

Blake bit his lip, thinking. "We've got a few crates of oatmeal left... and we can probably pull up some blankets from the safehouse..."

"Better, but not good enough." Selena started to walk away. "Sorry, boys."

"Wait... miss." Jamie called out. He swallowed as she turned to look at him. "The guy we're looking for... he's an innocent in all this. Okay? Hate us all you want, but Fox hasn't done anything to you, has he? He doesn't deserve..." Jamie fumbled at this, they didn't actually know WHAT was happening to Fox, "...whatever they're doing to him."

The woman looked at him for a long moment. "Maybe he doesn't." She admitted at last. "But again, why should I care? A lot of people don't deserve what's happening to them right now. I'm inclined to think_ I_ don't even deserve to be trapped in a madhouse like this."

Jamie bit his lip, made his decision, and took the plunge. "We got a guy who thinks he might know how to defuse the bomb." He said.

"Reagan!" Blake hissed.

Recklessly, Jamie plunged on. "Wayne Enterprises was working on something like it, and Fox was in charge of just about everything they did. If there's anyone left who knows how to turn it off, it's him." He spread his hands, looking at her plaintively. "C'mon, miss. You don't want the city to stay like this. You've hardly stopped complaining about it since we met you. You want to get out, same as everybody." He stopped, realizing something. "Same as me." He said softly. Shaking his head, he continued, "But without Fox, we're all stuck here, and we're going to KEEP being stuck here. No one's getting out, so long as that bomb's around."

Selena Kyle looked at him for a long, slow moment. Finally she spoke. "I want three crates." She said, glancing at Blake. "And the blankets, and one of those generators you guys have—don't lie and say you don't have one."

"We've got maybe two." Blake scoffed. "And how're you going to run one without any gas?"

"Good point. I want three gallons of gas to run it."

Flass groaned and rolled his eyes.

"Three gallons, six blankets, and one crate with the generator," offered Blake. "If we're giving you that much fuel, we need to hang on to some of our food."

"Two crates," answered Selena. "Or I tell Bane you stopped me and what you wanted Fox for."

Blake shot Jamie a frustrated look. "Fine. Two crates."

A smirk curved Selena's lips, and she gave a little nod. "Deal." She looked from one to the other. "Fox is working in the old motor pool on Gates Drive. Bane has him keep the trucks and cars running. There's a couple other bigwigs there who he has loading stuff and cleaning toilets and such. But they're under heavy guard. ALL the time."

"Leave that to us." Blake told her. Hesitating a moment, he asked: "Is... Mr. Wayne there, by any chance?"

A strange look entered Selena Kyle's face. Almost, Jamie thought, a look of pity. "No." She said softly. "He's not anywhere, detective. Don't waste your time looking for him." Turning away, she called over her shoulder: "I want those goods stashed in the old McDuffie warehouse by midnight tomorrow! And if they're not there, you can bet I'll be going straight to Bane!"

* * *

"If I don't see some action on these charges, I'll be taking this straight to Judge McCoy."

"Take it anywhere you like," shrugged Erin, without looking up from her work. "I doubt you're going to get much sympathy from ANYONE in the legal system."

"The charges are solid," insisted Maggie Sloan. "The officers involved clearly exceeded the acceptable bounds of force. And the way the DA's office is dragging their heels on this is quite frankly reprehensible. One call to the New York Times, and your boss's chance for re-election are over."

Erin rolled her eyes. "If you thought it was as simple as that, this'd be plastered over the front page already." She stated, finally looking up. "The officers implicated have already been dismissed, and your organization's attempt to use their brutality as an excuse to sue the entire NYPD is laughable." She settled back in her chair. "But you know that, or else you'd be down at CNN already. So how about you cut the crap and tell me what's REALLY going on here, Maggie."

The lawyer sighed and glanced away for a second. "Things are getting a little unstable in the movement." She admitted. "Micawber left last week, and the leading voice right now is Heep. He's the one pushing for this legislation. He organized that protest that's going on today too—though you won't actually SEE him there."

"I take it you've explained to him why this is a bad idea?" asked Erin. Sloan nodded. Erin continued on: "And despite that he wants to keep it up, regardless of how much it might alienate you."

"Bringing a case like this..." Sloan shuddered. "...either in the courts or the newsrooms, it's a public relations nightmare. But Heep doesn't care, he says it's all about the principle of the thing. That we shouldn't be worried on how it will affect other people."

"So what do you want?" Erin repeated.

"Let the charges pass, then appeal them," answered Sloan. "Like you say, the case is full of holes, find one and point it out. The whole thing will end up tied in red tape and it'll never see the light of day,"

"Interesting. But why would I do that instead of just letting your boss make an idiot of himself?" asked Erin. "The case doesn't have enough to go to trial, why should I let it? Just to make your life easier?"

"Because you're a good person who doesn't want to see any further trouble come of this mess?" Sloan suggested.

Erin thought this over, then shook her head. "Not good enough." She declared. "Give me something that'll convince the DA to let this through."

This seemed to give Sloan pause. She chewed her lip a moment. "I can give you Zombie." She said finally.

Erin's forehead wrinkled. "Zombie?"

"His full name is Dr. Osioto Ruga."

Erin's chair slid backwards as she stood up. "He's wanted in over three states on suspicion of conspiracy, reckless endangerment, and civil unrest! They think he may even have links to Bane himself! You've been harboring and abetting a wanted terrorist?"

"SUSPECTED terrorist." Sloan protested. "And I just found out about him yesterday. I don't know how long he's been here, but he was with Heep when I came to talk to him about this... mess." She waved her hand irritably. "The folks in the camp call him 'Zombie.' I don't think they have any idea who he is. Heck, I didn't even recognize him until I did some research. Heep might not even know who he is."

Erin was already punching buttons into her phone. "For your boss's sake, you'd better hope he doesn't." She warned the other. "Yes, Dad? I've just heard something you may want to know about. Hang on a second." She covered the mouthpiece with one hand. "Where is he now?"

Sloan closed her eyes. "He left with the protestors early this morning."

* * *

Trotwood slid back into position next to Jamie and Flass. "Five." He said, holding up his fingers.

"Weapons?"

"Two sub-machine guns. UMP 45's. All carrying sidearms."

Jamie winced. "Dang. We're going to have to take out those guards fast if we're going to have a shot at this." He handed Trotwood the shotgun. "Any sign of Fox?"

"Workers inside. Behind crate, out of the line of fire." Trotwood checked the shotgun's chamber. "Got the strobes?"

Jamie glanced skeptically at the bag in his hands. "Fireworks. What I wouldn't give for a pair of flashbangs right about now."

"All we have." Trotwood shrugged. "Let them burn a minute before throwing them over. Better results."

"Still say I should have the shotgun," muttered Flass, cocking his pistol. He, like Trotwood and Jamie, was wearing a bulletproof vest, one of the few the department had left. "I've got more experience than the two of you combined."

"Not in SWAT training, you don't." Jamie shot the man a warning look. "Trotwood's the one who's had the most assault training, so shut up."

Trotwood let out a dry chuckle at that. "I shoot left." He said, pointing. "Cluster of three, one sub-machine gun. You both right, at other gunner."

"Shouldn't we pick targets and each go for one?" Flass grunted, risking a peek around the corner."

"No." Trotwood shook his head. "Gunner priority. Once inside, no gunfire." He scratched his neck nervously. "Motor pools dangerous."

"Got it." Jamie checked his watch—not the Rolex from Danny, the Timex he'd pulled off a corpse last week. "Gordon's team is set to attack in about twenty seconds."

Trotwood nodded, counting on his watch. "Light fuse... now."

The lighter sparked unsuccessfully in Jamie's hand. Once, twice it failed to catch onto the fuse. Jamie heard Trotwood give a low growl, but then the fuse started to spark and fizz.

Jamie looked to Trotwood. He held up his fingers, counting down. Three. Two. On—

A chatter of machine gun fire broke off to the left of them as Jamie hurled the fireworks around the corner. Bright lights flashed and the sound of loud pops filled the air. Trotwood yelled something—Jamie couldn't tell what exactly, but the meaning was clear enough—and all three of them charged to the attack.

The fireworks were still flashing, but under the sunlight they were woefully inadequate. Fortunately, the guards WERE staring at the little balls of phosphorous and gunpowder, as if struck dumb by the sheer idiocy of the idea. Trotwood's shotgun barked twice, and off to his right Jamie could hear Flass's pistol, cracking away. His own attention was fixated solely on the end of his own pistol. He was firing, he knew, firing away at the body sighted at the end of the barrel.

Five months in No Man's Land had done wonders to Jamie's marksmanship. The two remaining guards crumpled under his gunfire. A few remaining guards came hurrying out of the doors, roused by the noise, but they had barely time to look before they fell.

All three jogged forward to the open doors. "Check inside, Reagan!" called Trotwood, already bending to pick up the dead guard's UMP. He and Flass were stripping ammo and guns from the bodies—ammo was becoming something of a rarity in No Man's Land.

Jamie nodded. Gun still drawn and out in front of him, he entered the motor pool, poking it around corners cautiously. "Lucius Fox?" He called.

A head poked up from behind a crate—a woman's head, framed in dark hair. "I'm afraid I'm not Lucius Fox." She said. There was a strange accent to her voice—Middle Eastern was Jamie's best guess. "You are the police, correct?"

"Yes." Jamie watched as others came crawling out of hiding. "We're here to rescue you, Ms...?

"Tate. Miranda Tate. I am... well, I suppose WAS, on Wayne Enterprises board of Directors. As were most of us." She indicated the others.

"So Fox is here?" A few nods responded and Jamie breathed a silent prayer of thanks. "Where is he?"

"He left once the shooting started," answered an elderly man, clad in overalls, sporting a mop and a black eye.

Jamie suppressed a curse. "Where'd he go?" He asked.

"Out back. He—"

"Reagan!" Trotwood called from the front. "What's the matter?"

Jamie turned, and that was what saved his life. For as he turned, he just caught sight of Trotwood's skinny form, framed in the light of the doorway. And next to him, Flass's distinctly not-skinny form, raising a pistol to Trotwood's head.

Jamie's eyes widened. "Look-!"

The gunshot drowned out his warning. Trotwood's brain spattered all over the side of the garage, his body blown sideways and falling to the ground. Jamie had scarcely time to duck behind cover before the submachine gun on Flass's hip roared to life, spraying the interior of the motor pool with bullets.

He found himself crouched next to Ms. Tate. "I take it this is not part of the rescue!?" She shouted.

"Not so much." Jamie agreed. He cast a nervous glance around, but miraculously, there didn't seem to be any fuel canisters or spilled oil anywhere to catch fire. Blindly, he stuck his gun out over the top of the crate and fired in the general direction of the bullets. He didn't expect it to do anything, but if Flass at least took cover, that would give them some breathing room.

Unfortunately, Flass didn't seem to be too bothered by his few shots. Bullets whined all the closer around Jamie's hiding spot, glancing off the pavement, chipping off bits of the crate he hid behind. Jamie glanced around... all the other refugees were hugging their hiding spots, just as he was. There didn't seem to be anywhere to run too, and it was only a matter of time before the guards got back...

Suddenly there was an odd, very metallic _clang_, and a groan from Flass. The bullets abruptly stopped, and there was a dull _thud _as something hit the pavement.

Then a soft, grandfatherly voice called out. "Hello? Officer, you still alive in there?"

Hesitantly, Jamie stood up, gun still at the ready. In the doorway, he saw an old black man standing over Flass's prone form, a crowbar in his hand. The mustached man gave him a smile. "Hello, officer."

Jamie felt a little shaky. He wiped his forehead with his hand. "Mr. Fox?" He asked.

"That's me," nodded the man. "Pleased to meet you, son." He glanced sideways as a particularly loud explosion shook the front. "Suppose we should get going?"

"Yes." Jamie managed. "Yes, just..." He looked down at all the bodies. They couldn't leave the ammo and weapons. They couldn't leave Trotwood's body. They couldn't leave Flass.

But how much heavy lifting could he expect from two women and four retirees?

He made his decision. Kneeling, he grabbed the submachine gun from Flass's hand and tossed it to Tate. "Grab the weapons from the others." He instructed the others. Fox was already picking up Trotwood's shotgun. "Ammo too."

He looked down, hesitating. One bullet... and Trotwood would be so much easier to carry than Flass...

* * *

The yelling was getting louder, more insistent. Several of the signs had stopped waving and started shaking. Amongst all the tin cans, there were stones and bottles being thrown now.

Renzulli and Cruz were on the sidelines, waiting nervously. Renzulli had his hand on his shoulder radio, Cruz's holster was popped open. Both of them were watching a tall, pale man half-hidden in the center of the mob.

"Yeah, we got eyes on him." Renzulli was saying. "Maintaining surveillance." He listened for a moment. "Copy that."

"Tell me they don't want US to go inta that mob and drag him out." Cruz said, as Renzulli hung up.

"You kiddin'?" Renzulli threw him a look. "My life insurance ain't paid up yet. No. We're just sitting here and waiting like good little police officers, where we can keep an eye on the perp." He noticed the way Cruz was staring at the guy and cuffed him on the shoulder. "But don't be obvious about it. Last thing we wanna do with a fish like this is spook him."

"Can't help it. First time I laid eyes on an honest-ta-Gawd terrorist, Sarge."

"Hey." Renzullis cuffed him again, finally earning himself a glare. "Keep Reagan out of your mind, okay? We do our job and nothin' more. The Commish ain't pullin' punches anymore."

Cruz relaxed. "Ain't that the truth." Sighing, he looked away. "So who're the lucky stiffs who get to..."

The protestor's shouts swelled to a sudden roar as the ERU van came rolling up the street, disgorging several squads of riot police. Cruz glanced meaningfully at Renzulli as the captain approached them.

"All right." He muttered, back to the mob, eyes flitting from one officer to the other. "Which of the goons behind me is our man?"

"Turn around and look for the sign that says: 'Butcher the Capitalist Pigs.'" Renzulli muttered back. "He's right underneath it, a little to the left of the guy holding it."

"Tall skinny guy. Real pale, creepy eyes." Cruz volunteered. "You'll know him when you see him."

The captain turned and seemed to sweep the crowd with a glance. "Got him." He nodded. "Thank you, officers." He started to walk back to his men.

Cruz looked to Renzulli. "Now what, Sarge?"

"Now..." Renzulli's face had a grim look. "...we stand by and hope like hell none of these schmucks is stupid enough to try something."

The captain was talking to his men. The crowd's roars had quieted to more of a murmur as they waited to see what was happening. Dr. Ruga looked wary, but calculating. Around the square, Renzulli could see other patrol officers, subtly shifting their stance and position.

Then the riot police broke up and formed a solid line, bringing up their clear plastic riot shields in front. Renzulli saw the captain step forward and say something.

There was a brief moment of confusion. Some of the protestors were linking arms; others were sitting down on the ground, a proudly defiant look on their features. Ruga was pushing and shoving, trying to clear a path, but the crowd was too disturbed to allow him passage.

"Okay..." Renzulli's hand eased off his shoulder radio. "Okay, looks good..."

Ruga finally shoved the protestors aside and started to push his way through. An overzealous riot officer saw it and charged at the crowd, waving his club. He half-tripped over one of the kneeling protestors, his club came down...

And suddenly the mob broke loose, and the square erupted into chaos.

* * *

"You're sure?" Gordon asked him.

Jamie ground his teeth and answered again. "I'm sure. I looked up and saw him shoot Trotwood in the head."

"That was a guard!" Flass protested. The portly ex-cop was kneeling on the ground, hands cuffed behind his back to a heater pipe. "I told you, one of Bane's guys came running around the corner of the building. I saw him, but he shot Trotwood before I could pop him one!"

"Yeah? And that bit where you sprayed the interior of the garage with gunfire, that was at the army hidden in the back?" Jamie shot back. He felt like they'd been through this argument a thousand times, and he was getting sick of it all.

"You were going to shoot at me! I thought YOU were the traitor, Mr. Manhattan!"

"Don't feed me that crap! I saw Trotwood's body, the bullet entered from your side!"

Flass shrugged angrily. "Well, why don't we take a look at the body then? Oh yeah, that's right, you left it there."

"Trust me, I'm starting to wish I'd left someone else's body there!" Jamie snarled.

"Shut up, the both of you!" snapped Gordon. He turned to the others. "Van Dorn, what do you say?"

The tired-looking woman standing in the back shrugged. "What do you want me to say, Gordon? I wouldn't be able to so much as charge a person on this sort of evidence, it's one word against another's."

"C'mon, this is a dirty ex-cop against a Commissioner's son here!" Nagel grunted.

"Which is why you brought me in here, isn't it?" Van Dorn shot the man a piercing glare. "None of you trust Flass, so you needed an impartial head. Excuse me if I'm trying to be impartial and maintain some form of due process here."

"Due process." Nagel scoffed, but turned away regardless.

"We're not Crane, we don't just drag a person up and declare them guilty." Gordon answered. He waved a hand at the assembled cops lining the walls. "Blake, search his pockets. See what you can find."

Jamie snorted. "What do you think you're gonna find, his Bane Scum-bag's membership card?"

"I told you to shut up." Gordon pointed at him. "Now shut up."

Shrugging, Blake walked over and started going through Flass's voluminous overcoat. Flass tried to twist away from him, but without result. At length, Blake grunted and held up a short-wave radio. "Don't recognize this."

"Calling in our little raid, were you?" Gordon raised an eyebrow.

"That thing's my uncle's. I keep it for sentimental value." Flass answered.

"Having a radio isn't a crime. And even if it was, it's entirely possible officer Reagan planted it on him while Officer Flass was out." Van Dorn pointed out reluctantly.

There was a rap on the door. Nagel, grabbing one of their new UMP's, sidled over and pressed his ear to the door. Even so, they all heard Foley's muffled "Serve," and Nagel's much clearer: "Protect." The metal door swung open to admit the Foley and the two civilians behind him.

Gordon nodded to them. "Mr. Fox. Ms. Tate."

"Commissioner." The elderly black man nodded back. "My heartfelt thanks for your men's intervention."  
"Your men braved great peril to bring us all to safety," agreed Ms. Tate, giving an odd little half-bow.

"Don't mention it." Gordon shook his head. "Part of the oath we all swore when we joined up." there were nods all around the warehouse. "At the moment, though, we've got something of a more immediate problem you can help us with."

He gestured to Van Dorn, but the woman shook her head. "Oh no. He's got a right to an attorney, and without anyone else here, that's me. I'm not going to play both sides of the law here, Jim."

"Fair enough." Gordon turned to look at Jamie. "You. Remember enough of that lawyer training to give it a go?"

Jamie blinked, but four years of Harvard training asserted itself almost automatically. "I'm too personally involved, AND I'm the other suspect involved in this case. I'd have to recuse myself."

"Desperate times." Van Dorn shrugged. "You're the only other lawyer in the room. We'll make do with what we've got."

Jamie frowned, but finally turned. "Mr. Fox." He said, turning to the elderly man. "Do you see anyone in this room you recognize?"

"Well, you," answered the man, with a light smile. "And the commissioner there, and the deputy commissioner, and the District Attorney." He nodded at Van Dorn. "But I suspect you're asking about the fat man chained to the pipe over there. And yes, I recognize him."

"From where do you recognize him?" Jamie asked.

"Oh, I saw him firing into the garage when I came out the side door."

Jamie smirked and turned to Gordon. "There, see?"

"Mr. Fox." Van Dorn spoke up. "Did you see who Officer Flass was shooting at?"

Fox paused in thought. "No."

"So you don't know whether he was shooting at everyone in the garage, or just officer Reagan?"

Fox shook his head. "Afraid not."

"Hang on!" Jamie broke in. "Then why did you strike Officer Flass on the head with a crowbar?"

"Objection." Van Dorn said. "The prosecution is not allowed to question once I begin cross-examination."

"Cross-examination is not allowed to begin until the prosecution rests." Jamie shot back. "I never said I was finished with my questions."

The corner of Van Dorn's mouth twisted. "Withdrawn."

"What the hell? What do you mean withdrawn!?" Flass shouted.

"To answer the question, Officer Reagan, I hit him because I'd seen him a month or so ago, talking to some of the guards." Fox answered. "They seemed friendly enough—they gave him a little radio—so when I saw him coming toward the garage, I figured I ought to arrange a little reception."

"This is BULL SHIT!" Flass raged, struggling madly. "I've never been within a mile of that place! They'd shoot me on sight?"

"Blake." Jamie signaled. He caught the radio as the other officer tossed it to him. "Do you recognize this radio, Mr. Fox?"

"They got those radios all over Gotham! That don't prove anything!" Flass shouted.

"Mm, actually it does." Fox answered, arching an eyebrow at him. "See, I make these things for Bane's men to use. Course, they don't work over anything more than close range, but it's amazing how often they break down. This one here..." He squinted at the box. "...yes, I fixed this little number a few days before you showed up."

Jamie smirked. "No further questions."

"Mr. Fox, did you see Officer Flass shoot Officer Trotwood?" Van Dorn asked.

"Was he the dead officer on the ground?" At Van Dorn's nod, Fox regretfully shook his head. "No, I'm afraid I ducked out the minute I saw him coming. I figured he was up to something."

"We done?" Gordon asked. He looked coldly dangerous.

Van Dorn sighed as she turned to him. "Depends what you mean. The radio proves conspiracy, but not murder. We've got no evidence of him shooting Officer Trotwood."

"Hey, what kind of lawyer are you?" shouted Flass, glaring at her.

"Seriously?" Gordon raised an eyebrow at her. "What, you think there was some OTHER traitor that shot him?"

"We don't have the evidence." Van Dorn repeated. "Leave him here, Bane will execute him anyway for what he's done."

"What the hell difference does it make?" Flass snarled.

"I don't want to leave him to Bane." Gordon practically hissed. "Flass knows too much. We're going to be pulling out anyway, but we can't leave him to tell Bane what he knows about us."

"You're not executing anyone on a conspiracy charge, Jim." Van Dorn shot back. "I will not allow it."

"We don't have a lot of options."

"Hang on." Jamie raised his hand. He turned back to the civilians. "Ms. Tate, do you recognize this man?"

The lady turned to look at Flass. She studied him for a moment. "Yes." She nodded.

"And did you see him shoot Officer Trotwood?" Jamie pressed. In the back of his mind, he realized he was leading the witness, but a larger part of him didn't care.

For a moment, Jamie thought he saw a flash of... something... in Tate's eyes, as she looked at Flass. Then she turned to look at him. "Yes." She nodded.

Jamie looked at Gordon. Gordon looked at Van Dorn. And slowly, Van Dorn nodded.

Flass erupted into a fresh bout of struggling. "No!" He screamed, as Nagel walked up, gun in hand. "This whole thing is a sham! I've been framed!" Straining at the pipe, he snarled at them like a wild animal. "This is all you, Gordon. You and your pretty little cop boys are going to feel it when Bane comes on..."

The shot echoed through the warehouse. Flass's fat body pitched backwards against the pipes, then slumped to the ground and was still.

* * *

Frank looked over at Garret. "You're sure?"

"The ERU captain at the scene says they have Ruga and they're taking him in for processing," Garret nodded. Around him, the screens of the Situation Room updated, a glowing blue line showing the quickest route to Rikers.

"Cordon off the route and tell them to step on it." Frank ordered.

"I'd like our agents to take over custody of him as soon as possible," indicated one of the men behind Frank

"Ruga will be given over to the FBI in due course." Frank murmured, eyes scanning the screens on the wall. "At the moment, we have a more urgent problem. How soon can we seal off the square?"

"The riot's already spread beyond the square, sir." One of the captains informed him.

"It's quickly going down Third street and Heep Ave," said another, pointing to the map. "Some of them are protestors fleeing the event, some of them... well, they're running to join in."

"Erect barricades at Gradgrind and Pickwick, then," answered Frank. "and any of the streets running off it. This situation has to be contained."

"Directing riot police to the square. Patrol officers sent to erect the barricades."

Garret nodded in approval. "It helps that we had most of the force mobilized in preparation."

"Make sure the mayor's office is secure." Frank ordered. "A riot like this is still too small for Ruga. He might have been planning something else."

"Sir." One of the technicians seated at the computers turned around. "We've been getting reports of bystanders joining in, sir."

"More protestors?"

"No." The technician shook his head. "No, sir, they're ATTACKING the protestors. Our boys are having to tear some of them off."

Garret looked to Frank. "I don't suppose they're just civic minded citizens?"

"More likely folks with family in Gotham," answered Frank. "Or just ones that blame the protestors for everything. We need to get a handle on this before it turns into an all-out civil war."

Another of the captains nodded. "Tell the squads to warn the civilians on bullhorns to stand down." He directed the technician. "If they persist, all participants are to be arrested."

"Reports of shots fired near Zucotti park!" another technician yelped.

"Shots?"

Garret's phone was already out. "I KNEW I should have told them to repress the story." He hissed. "Sir, you need to get in front of a camera immediately."

"And leave this?" Frank looked at his assistant in bewilderment.

"Mobilize the riot police we have near that location!" snapped one captain.

"Sir, they were dispatched to help with the bank riot!"

"Call in all patrol officers near that location." Frank ordered. "Tell the men to surround the park and face outward."

Heads turned in his direction. "Outward, sir?"

"It's a pretty safe bet that most of the troublemakers went to the bank protest." Frank reasoned. "And whatever maniacs are shooting at the Occupiers, they won't fire through police officers. It's not a perfect solution, but it'll hold until we can get some more ESU units there."

"Seems a bit... dangerous, sir."

"Dangerous?" Frank shook his head. "A massacre in the park, that's dangerous. A city-wide riot, that's dangerous. Those men have taken an oath to protect the people of the city; they know what the score is. Get them over there NOW."

"Sir!" Another shout. "The barricade on Pickwick is being stormed! They're charging right over it!"

Frank groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Lord, see us through this day." He breathed.

* * *

"Where's this place?" asked Fox.

"The Narrows." Blake answered, eyes scanning the side alleys. "We've been hiding folks in the old La Grande hotel. Place has been deserted for years—used to be quite the bum hangout. Of course, now that all the bums can sleep in penthouses..."

"The poor sleep in luxury and the rich in poverty." Fox gave a little chuckle. "That's almost poetic."

"There's fleas there, too. Nothing poetic about them," put in Reese, with a nervous chuckle. He was eying Fox with... admiration? fear? Jamie couldn't make up his mind which. The fear might be his imagination, he was feeling pretty jumpy himself, escorting three bigwigs through the city like this. The new UMP swinging at his hip made him feel slightly more confident, but not very.

"No?" Ms. Tate eyed Reese with amusement. "Has not one of your poets, John Donne, written about them?"

Reese's face flushed. "Well... he wasn't... strictly talking about fleas, you know..."

"I remember the La Grande hotel," put in Fox. "Lived there for a spell when Earl ran the company. I do appreciate the armed escort, but it seems like we could make this trip on our own."

"Not just for you sir." Jamie answered, risking a glance back to the trio. "No way of knowing what Flass told Bane. Have to assume the position's been compromised. We need to move you and the others out, and for that, you need an escort." He indicated himself and Blake.

Reese's face creased in sudden worry. "Doesn't seem like much of a guard." He muttered.

"Foley was getting some more men together. They'll form the bulk of the escort. We're just being sent to get the ball rolling." Blake assured him. "Gordon wants us to move out by nightfall—no sense in waiting around."

"Seems like if Mr. Flass had told them where you or your wards were, he'd have hit them while you were all out rescuing us." Fox pointed out.

"Seems like," agreed Blake. "But better not to take the chance. We have a lot across town—the Amway Inn—that we were looking into as a secondary safe-house. It's larger and in a quiet quarter... it should be safe."

"Let us hope you do not have any more leaks." Ms. Tate murmured.

Blake and Jamie exchanged glances. "It shouldn't be a problem, ma'am." Jamie assured her. "We're generally pretty careful about who we let in. Gordon's pretty quick at spotting the liars. And we keep stuff like the safehouse secret from most newcomers."

"Flass is the first major leak we've had," agreed Blake. "Maybe Gordon just wanted to give his old partner a chance to redeem himself... who knows. But it won't happen again."

Ms. Tate smiled warmly. "I'm sure."

"We're not exactly in a position to be picky, Miranda." Fox pointed out. "These fine gentlemen saved our lives, I think we owe them some trust."

Blake chuckled. "Don't look at me, I wasn't there."

"And you and I seem to have a different memory of the 'rescue,'" answered Jamie, shooting an amused look at Fox. "Seems like I remember YOU saving ME."

Fox simply shrugged. "Wouldn't have been able to do that if you hadn't been such an effective distraction." He replied. "It's not as though I could have broken out of there by myself. Personally, I'm astonished you even found me."

"Thank your accounting friend over there." Jamie shrugged, nodding toward Reese. "He kept insisting that we look for you and Mr. Wayne."

"Is that so?" A strangely amused smile tugged at Fox's lips as he looked at Reese. "My, my."

"I'd give him a promotion after this is all over." Jamie suggested.

"Oh, not necessary," put in Reese hastily, giving a nervous laugh. "Listen, Mr. Fox... that fusion bomb... that was Wayne Enterprises experimental generator, right?"

Ms. Tate looked at Reese in surprise, but Fox merely gave a quiet nod. "Yes. He found out about it somehow."

"He seized the board and threatened to shoot them one by one if we did not activate the reactor core." Ms. Tate said. She shrugged helplessly. "What choice did we have?"

Fox shook his head. "I could have activated the flood system." He said. "I should have. It just... for some reason I forgot everything in that moment.

Jamie's mind was spinning. "Hang on." He said, speaking with difficulty. "That... superbomb, that Bane has. That was made here? In the city?"

"For pity's sake, Reagan!" exploded Reese, rounding on him. "I explained all this to you before! Remember? Wayne Enterprises, five-year research, miracle power source, bankruptcy, sudden appearance of fusion bomb? Don't you remember me saying this?"

"Well... yeah, but..." Jamie shook his head. "Mr. Fox." He said, stopping suddenly, turning to face the man. "Can you defuse it?"

Fox's wrinkled face grew distinctly wrinklier. "Son, we better hope I can defuse it. In less than a month, that thing will blow itself."

Everyone stopped and looked at the man. He nodded. "I meant to tell the commissioner when I was there, but... that reactor wasn't meant to be pulled around like that. Cut from the main casing, it grows increasingly unstable. The professor said it'd blow within six months."

"Six... but it's been..." Jamie did some rapid calculation "...nearly five already!" Jamie looked to Blake.

Blake's face was tense and stern. "We need to let Gordon know NOW." He said, reaching for his radio.

At that moment there was a sharp _crack_, and Reese fell to the ground. Jamie scarcely had time to dive for cover before the chatter of submachine guns filled the air, and bullets began to chip the pavement.

He glanced over. Blake had Fox and Tate behind the corner of the building. The street behind them was clear, but Jamie could see hesitation in his fellow officer's eyes as he looked at him.

"Go!" shouted Jamie, waving him on. "I'll catch up!" He popped up over the debris and fired blindly at the attackers. "Go!" He shouted again.

Blake winced, but nodded. When next Jamie looked over, the three of them were simply three swiftly retreating forms.

Right. Now to make sure these bastard's didn't catch up. Jamie rounded the corner of debris and ran for the next piece of cover, spraying the field with his gun.

* * *

"Where's Mom?" Sean asked as he struggled into the front seat.

"Your mother has to work late." Henry answered, reaching over to help the boy with his seat belt. "She asked me to chaffeur the two of you home."

Sean smiled. "I like it when you pick us up, Grandpa. Can we stop by the Frosty Boy's on our way home?"

Henry winked at the boy. "I don't see why not. Just so long as you don't tell your mother."

"Deal." Jack answered.

Smirking, Henry leaned forward to shout out Sean's window. "Jack, what's taking so long? Let's get a move on!"

"Coming!" Jack came trotting up, his bag slung over one shoulder, his coat half-on the other, and swelling purplish bruise over his left eye.

Henry raised his eyebrows. "Quite the shiner you got there, kiddo. There a story behind it?"

"I don't want to talk about it." Jack mumbled, pushing into the back seat. He dropped his bag on the seat and slid the seat belt over his torso. "I tripped and fell, okay?"

A snort broke loose from Henry. "Do you have any idea how many times I've heard that story? Just tell me if you deserved it or not."

"Can we just go?" Jack pleaded.

Grunting with frustration, but seeing the cars already lining up behind him, Henry started up the car and drove off. "Did you get any in on the other kid?" He asked.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Was it a friend of yours or was it some sort of schoolyard punk?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"What's 'punk' mean, Grandpa?" Sean asked.

Henry threw him a glance. "It means 'word never to say in front of adults.' Jack, did you tell a teacher? A recess monitor?"

"I said I don't want to talk about it."

"Well perhaps I should call the school supervisor..."

"He knows already, okay?"

"Ah, so you're in trouble." Henry grunted as Jack's face came up to look at him. "If you weren't, you wouldn't be so quiet about it. Is that why you were late coming out of school? What'd you do, knock some kid's teeth in for bad-mouthing the police department?"

Jack let out a huff and stared out the window. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Don't give me that." Henry answered, eyes fixed on the road. "If I can crack hardened criminals in the interrogation room in fifteen minutes, I can definitely crack my grandson in the car before we get home. Now make it easier on yourself and just tell me."

A small grin quirked the edge of Jack's mouth. "I want my lawyer."

"Sorry. Don't get one. Now talk, sonny."

"He got into a fight with Billy Morrison on the playground." Sean answered.

"Sean!" Jack hissed.

"OBVIOUSLY he got in a fight." Henry rolled his eyes. "Did Billy Morrison deserve it?"

Jack sighed and looked out the window. "He said Dad was a bad cop."

"Mm." Henry just nodded. "And does he have a black eye like yours?"

A smirk appeared on Jack's face. "Two."

Henry nodded again, also smiling. "Glad to hear it."

"Grandpa, how long is it going to take us to get to Frosty Boy's?" Sean slumped in exaggerated frustration. "These cars are going sooooo slow."

"We'll get there when we get there," answered Henry. He didn't look at the boy, but he did frown at the surrounding cars, which had practically come to a complete stop. "There is something weird about the traffic, though. Not sure what it is. Perhaps there's something on the radio." He reached for the knobs.

"Grandpa, look!" Sean straightened suddenly, pointing out the window.

Henry looked, just in time to see a disheveled man run out of an alley. Followed by another disheveled man. And several more, some carrying signs. One of them jumped on top of another and started to pull on his hair.

"Grandpa, that man is..."

"I see it!" Henry barked. "Get down, you two!"

There were more people now, running straight down the street, in between the cars. Some were simply running, others were stopping every few paces to throw things at the buildings, others were tackling and wrestling each other. And, Henry could see, none of them were cops.

"Grandpa?"

"I said stay down!" Henry snapped, then, somewhat softer. "Don't worry about it. As long as we stay in the car, we should be..."

A hairy face plastered itself against the driver's side window, and Henry jolted back with a sharp imprecation that he HOPED the boys didn't understand. The man pounded on the glass and shouted something. It was fairly muted through the glass, but Henry was pretty sure it was: "Open the window, man!"

Henry shook his head, glaring at the man. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see other people jumping out of their cars to join in, some others being dragged out by protestors. _Has the world gone mad?_ He wondered.

The man at his window suddenly reared back. Henry had just time to realize the man was carrying a crowbar and dodge back before the window shattered under its impact. Glass shards flew everywhere.

"Damn!" The man said, trying to work his crowbar free from the remains of the window. "Now hop out of that seat, gramps, and let's..."

The man froze as he heard the _click _of Henry's gun.

* * *

_ .Clickclickclick._

Jamie tossed the empty gun from him in disgust, smoothly pulling out his pistol. Okay, so he was down to his sidearm, but he'd already shot at least two and winged another. There couldn't be that many more. Gripping the gun with both hands, he whirled up and out from behind cover.

There was a dark shape, just poking out from behind the corner there. Jamie fired twice. It ducked back, but Jamie fired once more as he jogged to a new position. No sense in staying in the same spot for too long. A glint in the windows above caught his eye and he whipped up his gun.

Something punched him in the gut with all the force of a freight train, and he felt the ground kick up from under his feet. His gun went flying as he crashed to the pavement.

As he struggled on the ground, gasping for breath, two forms jogged out from the building and approached him.

"Bulletproof vest," observed one. "Didn't know the Blue Boys had any of those left."

"Rendel said some of the guys attacking the garage wore them. This guy must've been part of that team." Something kicked him in the side, rolling him over. "Can't have many left, though, we cleaned out that station pretty well." The man raised his voice. "Assad, get down here! And call the bus, tell them we got another guest!"

"Hang on, you're not going to shoot him? This piece of shit got Charlie!"

"Got to have SOMETHING to show for all this. I ain't going back empty-handed, least we can do is bring them someone else to make an example of." The man kicked him again. "Scarecrow'll LOVE the chance to try a cop in the courtroom."

* * *

**A/N:** This should have been out a LONG time ago. Maybe would have, except it turned out to be a LOT longer and more complex than I planned. And there were a few side-projects that distracted me, and I wanted to finish up my other fanfic first, and there were finals... you get the idea. Anyway, it's here now. Next chapter is shorter, and shouldn't take nearly as long.

I wish I'd foreshadowed Flass more... shown him joining in the "Hard Times" chapter. That scene where he got shot was always going to be in the story, though in most versions Jamie was the one who shot him. But it was just going to be a bit-a quick reference to his betrayal ,a quick trial, and an execution. This chapter wasn't even supposed to exist, really. But I realized I needed a real REASON for Jamie to get captured, and I wanted to connect it to the main body of the movie's plot. So, this.

Also, I broke my "no fan characters" rule. I still think it best to keep out Bullock and Montoya, but I had fun throwing in occassional references into this chapter. Interested to see how many you guys spotted.

Hope you enjoy!


	9. The Frozen Deep

**The Frozen Deep**

Henry stood as the door to the house crashed open. "Linda?"

"Where are they?" Linda demanded. "Where..."

"Mom!" Jack and Sean came running from the back room to jump into Linda's arms. Their mother clutched them fiercely, possessively to her chest, shaking her head. Tears were forming in the corner of her eyes, and her lips were moving, but whatever she was saying was impossible to make out.

"Great-Grandpa picked us up from school!" Sean announced.

"But we got stuck in a traffic jam, and this guy tried to carjack us!" added Jack.

"Yeah!" Sean nodded vigorously. "But Great-Grandpa pulled a gun on him, and held him off until the cops came! We got to go down to the police station and give a statement and EVERYTHING!"

"That's... great, honey." Linda backed up and gave them as warm a smile as she could muster. "How about you go play some games in the next room while I talk to Grandpa?"

Sean frowned. "But we haven't told you about the nice SWAT officer yet..."

"She means we're excused." Jack informed his brother.

"Ohhhhhh..."

Henry eyed Linda worriedly as the boys ran out. "I'm sorry, Linda. I've carried a gun ever since that ATM robbery."

"Oh, it's not that." Linda assured him, waving the apology away. "Danny carries a gun all the time, I just..." She came in close and gave him a hug. "Thank you."

Henry raised his eyebrows. "You're... not mad?"

"Oh, I'm mad. Just not at YOU." Letting go, Linda slumped onto the couch. "When Frank called me with the news, I just..." She took a deep breath.

"Ah, so THAT'S why you're home early."

Linda gave him an odd look. "My kids nearly get carjacked in a riot, and you expect me to stay working at the hospital?"

"Well..." Henry considered, "...when you put it THAT way..."

Linda sighed. "They're all right? They weren't hurt or scared?"

"You saw them. They think it's the most incredible thing since that new game you got them." Henry grunted. "Going to the police station was like a field trip. Fortunately no one asked about whether I'd brought that gun onto school grounds..."

Linda closed her eyes. "Granddad..."

Smiling apologetically, Henry shrugged and shoved his hands into his pockets. "They're fine, Linda. They're all fine."

"Good." Linda closed her eyes. "I'm sorry, Henry. Maybe I'm overreacting, but it's just... first Jamie, then Danny..."

"You're not overreacting." Henry assured her, settling down on the couch next to her and throwing an arm over her shoulders. "But you also don't need to worry. Everything'll be all right."

* * *

"Exile." Jamie heard a gavel rap on wood. "All right, who's next?"

"This one!" The voice came from the man in front of him, pulling on his arm. With the bag over his head, Jamie could tell nothing of his surroundings, able only to feel the many people he was jostling against and hear the confused roar of the crowd. Still, it wasn't much of a guess—the courthouse, presided over by Judge Crane. Seriously, why had they bothered with the bag? It wasn't as though this place was particularly secret. "We have one!" shouted the man again

"Very well, bring him up."

Jamie was shoved into a cold chair and the bag ripped off his head. He blinked in the sudden light and glanced about him. Sure enough, the courthouse. Had his captors just wanted the extra drama of hiding his face?

"Very well. Court is now in session." Jamie's eyes traveled up the tall pile of desks in front of him to the scrawny man precariously enthroned atop the heap. Cold eyes blinked at him from behind thick glass from a face sprouting out of a badly-torn judge's robe.

Dr. Jonathon Crane. Former psychiatrist turned terrorist turned insane drug dealer turned impromptu judge.

"Name?" The mock-judge raised a pair of scornful eyebrows.

"Jamie Reagan." It occurred to Jamie that he should probably say "your honor," but he really couldn't bring himself to.

"Jamie Reagan, this court finds you guilty of crimes against the people." Crane intoned. "For the sentence..."

"Your honor!" The man at Jamie's elbow spoke up, apparently feeling he was not being given enough consideration. "This man is a special case!"

"Aren't they all?" Crane barely stifled a yawn.

"No, your honor." It was becoming clear the man was playing more to the crowd. "This man..." a dramatic pause, and the man lifted high Jamie's badge, "is a COP!"

The confused murmur of the crowd around him suddenly swelled to a roar, and the mob pressed in on all sides. Jamie could practically hear every misdemeanor and parking ticket in their shouting. This was something new, something worthwhile! A cop was a celebrity in this gathering, a special execution, more interesting than the countless unknowns they'd been sending out on the ice.

Crane was the only one who seemed unimpressed. "How nice. OFFICER Jamie Reagan, you have been found guilty of crimes against the people of Gotham. For the sentence, do you choose exile? Or death?"

Jamie blinked. He'd heard of this. Exile—going out on the ice. Death—two in the head behind the courthouse. He and Blake and Nagel had talked, nights, of what their choice would be, if they ever got captured. But to actually be confronted with it now...

"But... but your honor!" The man behind him spoke up again. Jamie really wanted to punch that guy. "Shouldn't there be something extra... for his crimes?"

_Exile? Or Death?_

Crane's eyes seemed to glitter behind his glasses. "Perhaps you are right. Perhaps this case DOES merit some extra consideration." He leant forward. "Why don't you tell us all about how you captured him, Mr. Zackary."

The crowd cheered in approval. "Yeah!" "Tell us!" "How'd it happen?" "Didja beat down on him good?" "Let's hear all about the scumbag!"

Exile was largely a front... a scam to make the mob appear more merciful than it actually was. Exile was as good as Death and everyone knew it.

Mr. Zackary seemed less than thrilled with the crowd's decision. "Well." He swallowed. "He was... he was part of an escort guarding a couple of fat cats..."

"Details, please, Mr. Zackary." Crane cocked his head.

"...guarding a Miranda Tate and..." Zackary swallowed again. "...Lucius Fox."

A series of whispers broke from the crowd. "Lucius Fox?" "Wasn't he with Wayne?" "Hey, that guy fired me!" "Who the hell's this Tate?" "I broke in Fox's house last week and didn't find jack shit." "Probably stored his millions elsewhere, asshole."

But there was still a chance, however slim, with Exile. It was possible to find a way across the ice... just very unlikely. No one had ever made it across... then again, how would you know if they had? And wasn't a chance better than no chance at all? Was it really worth throwing away your only chance at survival, just to make the mob feel guilty?

"VERY interesting." Crane nodded. "And did you, Mr. Zackary, a loyal servant of the people, recapture these enemies?"

More shouts. "Hell yeah!" "We got them too?" "This day just's getting better and better!" "Fox isn't so bad." "Out on the ice with those bastards!"

"We... we tried." Mr. Zackary shot a nervous glance at his partner, who was sweating in the cold air. "Me and Taylor here... we tried. And... Assad. We were out there with Charlie and Mendoza. But... this piece of shit..." here he kicked Jamie's chair. "...got in our way."

_ Death? Or Exile? _

Gaining courage, Zackary spoke louder. "He KILLED Charlie, and Mendoza's in the ward right now! Taylor here took a bullet in the shoulder from this guy!"

It suddenly struck Jamie that he felt absolutely no remorse on hearing about Charlie. Worse, that he felt slight disappointment on hearing about Mendoza. It seemed like he should feel guilty... would he have felt guilty, back before all this? Even the man he'd shot in New York... he'd never felt any particular shame about what he'd done.

Had Gotham turned him into this? Or had he always been this way? And more importantly... how much of a problem was that?

The crowd was roaring around him. They wanted his blood, one way or another.

It made no difference to Crane. "So then you did NOT capture Fox."

The crowd's roar suddenly quieted.

"Y-yes. But..."

"Though you had been specifically ordered by the People to do so."

"But this cop...!"

"You had five men with you." Crane pointed out mercilessly. "Five men, and somehow you cannot kill one cop and one suit?"

The crowd was starting to mutter. "Yeah, that's fishy." "Screwed that up bad, didn't he?" "Cop doesn't look like THAT much of a badass."

"Yeah, but..." Zackary glanced from side to side at the crowd. "...but there were other cops there! Like... twenty or thirty!"

Jamie silently shook his head. The man should have stuck to a more reasonable number. Five, or six, maybe.

Clearly, the crowd didn't believe it either. "Twenty?" "Who's he think he's fooling?" "Like heck there were." "How'd they even capture one, if there were so many?" "This guy must think we're a bunch of morons."

Mr. Zackary looked to his friend for help, but Taylor was slowly backing away, also glancing at the crowd. "Your honor... People..." Losing his composure, he finally shouted. "C'mon, guys, I got you a COP! When's the last time you had a pig up here? I get one of these, and you do this to me?"

"If that's what happened." "Idiot lost Fox." "How do we know this guy's even a cop? Maybe Zack's the one with the badge!"

Jamie studied Crane with a new respect. A smirk was tugging at the edge of the '"judge's" lips. In that moment, Jamie took back anything he'd ever said about Crane being an idiotic choice for a judge. Crane was a BRILLIANT choice. He could get the crowd to execute whoever he wanted.

Crane made a show of glancing around the auditorium. "Ryan Zackary." He said. "It seems the people are not pleased with your service. You stand accused of betraying the people..."

"I've been with this movement from the start!" Zackary protested, stepping forward. "I was with the group that took Copplepot's pad! I..."

"...and of collaboration with police officers." Crane stated, overriding the man's objections. "All the evidence has been heard. This court finds you guilty of high treason against the people." Crane rapped his gavel on the desk.

The crowd roared their approval. "That's the way!" "Never liked that guy." "You don't try to pull NO shit over on us, man." "Hope that shows all your cop buddies!"

Ryan Zackary just gaped up at the high desk in disbelief. He seemed almost frozen in place.

"You are now presented with a choice." Crane continued. "For the sentence, do you choose exile or death?"

_Exile? Or death?_

Mr. Zackary made no immediate answer, he was just looking around the room, his mouth opening and closing, clearly unable to grasp how this had happened.

Crane seemed irritated at the delay. "Mr. Zackary, this court has a full docket of cases. Please do not waste the court's time. Exile or Death, which is it?"

Apparently awakening from whatever stupor he was in, Zackary stared up at the desk with sudden fury. "Screw you!" He shouted. "Screw all of you! You're no better than the fat cats, you bastards!" He whipped up the gun at his hip. "Screw yo..."

But he never even got off a shot. From all sides, the mob seized him and dragged him away, wrestling the gun away from his hands. Jamie, still sitting in the cold chair, turned away from the sight as they dragged him, kicking and screaming, out of the courtroom.

What was the point of selecting death? This mob knew exactly what they were doing. Choosing death would awaken no guilt in them. There was no guilt to be found, here.

"In lack of a decision by Mr. Zackary, this court sentences him to death. This sentence is to be acted upon immediately." Crane rapped his gavel and again the crowd roared. "Now: To return to the case of Officer Jamie Reagan vs. the people." Crane turned his lidded eyes down toward him. "The verdict has already been given. For the sentence… exile? Or death?"

Exile? Or death?

And Jamie realized that the whole point of Exile was not, as he had thought, the moral high ground that it gave the mob. It was an extra torture, a false hope to add the edge to their execution. And, perhaps, a way to laugh at those who so desperately clung to the chance they never gave to anyone.

"The People demand an answer, officer Reagan." Crane looked down on him.

Jamie finished thinking. "Death." He said, with just a small hitch in his voice.

"I think not."

The voice came from behind him, and was deep and gravelly. The crowd gave a collective gasp and the judge sat up a little straighter as the calm, placid steps of the speaker resounded through the courtroom. Jamie just sat, his hands gripping the arms of the chair, his eyes staring straight ahead. He had only heard that voice in newsreels, but he knew who it was.

"This is no ordinary enforcer of the corrupt," continued the voice, slowly nearing the chair. "No mere mercenary. No…" the voice stepped into view. "…this man is a true son of privilege."

Jamie looked up. An intensely solid man, his rippling muscles hidden under a great wool coat, shoulders practically swallowing up the neck that supported his thick, squarish head. Glittering eyes beneath a gleaming bald head, eyes that surveyed Jamie with a mixture of detachment and cruel amusement.

A great black face muzzle that swallowed up the lower half of his face.

Bane.

The massive terrorist held out his hand and someone handed him Jamie's wallet. Slowly, deliberately, he opened it, fishing out the few bills inside and tossing them carelessly away. "How many of you," he said, turning to the crowd, "Could afford to carry a hundred dollars in cash?"

_The emergency stash._ Jamie closed his eyes as the crowd roared.

"How many of you could afford to go to Harvard University?" Jamie's old Student ID came clattering to the ground. "How many of you could afford to join the Dent Society?" The ticket Mayor Garcia had given him was picked out and waved in the air as evidence.

"But then…" Bane pried the driver's license from the wallet. "…how many of you are the son of a New York City Police Commissioner?"

The roaring suddenly quieted to a hush.

"Officer Jamie Reagan." Bane let the license fall to the ground. "Son of Commissioner Frank Reagan. GRANDSON of former Police Commissioner HENRY Reagan. Last in an old and resPECTable line of comfortable lapdogs. Doubtless, someday this favored son will be the NEXT Police Commissioner. Unless there is an elder brother to inherit the throne?"

Jamie felt a cold knot form in the pit of his stomach.

"Tell me, officer Reagan." Bane took a knife from one of his lieutenants and eyed it contemplatively. "Were we to slit your throat, what color would your blood be?"

Jamie said nothing, he just stared straight ahead.

Bane tossed the knife away. "This man…" He said, turning to the crowd. "…is fortune's own son. An aristocratic heir to the oppressor's helm, whose existence stifles the ability of others to rise, limiting the opportunities and ambitions of others! For who can resist promoting or praising the son of a powerful man? Who dares deny him anything?" Turning again, he faced the judge's mountain. "Magistrate, you are faced with a man who has always been given exactly what he wants, and you allow him to choose his own death?" He held up a hand to forestall Crane's protests. "But then, yours is merely the verdict of the people."

"People of Gotham!" The voice boomed out, surprisingly clear and loud, through the courtroom. "Do you allow this coddled son to die as he pleases?"

The crowd roared, a swelling chant that rushed over Jamie like a cold river, threatening to overwhelm him.

"Then the people's sentence is given." Bane turned back to face him. "You shall be exiled."

* * *

Jamie stood on the banks of Gotham River. Before him stretched a wide expanse of slippery ice that led into the darkness. Behind him stood three of Bane's thugs. They stood as if at ease, but there was no mistaking the weapons in their hands.

Swallowing, Jamie looked up at the dark bridge, just visible in the night. Had it been only seven months since he'd come in on that bridge? Six, maybe?

Some bullets pinged off the rocks near his feet and he waved his hand, stepping out onto the ice. He hated to do it in front of the thugs, but regardless, he got down on his hands and knees and started to crawl. One of the officers had mentioned this as a way to spread out your weight and make the ice less likely to crack. Jamie had no idea as to whether the advice was any good, but it was worth a try.

The ice crackled noisily under his feet, and Jamie felt it tremble dangerously. No way it would support him to the other side. He closed his eyes, but kept crawling. Any minute now, the ice would buckle under his weight and he would crash into the icy water, either to drown or die of hypothermia. He supposed there were worse ways to go.

A nuclear explosion, for instance. In a month or so, the city would be dust and nothing would matter. Then his family would have to give him up for dead. Another son gone... he hoped Dad would be able to take it. And Danny... God, Danny.

The ice under his left hand creaked alarmingly and he quickly shifted it away.

At least he wouldn't be leaving behind any wife or children. That was a comfort. There were times when he'd regretted the women he'd left behind, but right now, he felt a profound peace with that knowledge.

His right knee cracked the ice, indented it a little.

Odd. Growing up in a family, you took it for granted that you wouldn't die alone and unrecognized like this. Maybe his body would wash up on the northern shore. Maybe the soldiers would find it, perhaps even recognize it. And they'd tell Dad, and the rest of the family. They'd moan, and bury him next to Joe in the St. Jerome's cemetary.

_ Joe... Hang in there Joe. I'll see you soon._

He shifted his right hand forward, and without warning the ice broke beneath it. He tried to catch himself but the sudden shift of weight cracked off a big sheet of ice, and it flipped, plummeting Jamie Reagan into the frozen deep.

* * *

**A/N: **Note that the story is not complete. Please review!


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